


England Keep My Bones

by StanningJay



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 1920s AU, Abuse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Betrayal, Emotional Abuse, Era typical homophobia, First Kiss, First Time, FitzHunter - Freeform, Guns, Handcuffs, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Language, London, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Switching, alcohol use, description of stitches being removed, platonic!fitzsimmons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StanningJay/pseuds/StanningJay
Summary: Post WWI London, England. Alastair Fitz runs the Framework, one of the city's most powerful gangs. His son, Leopold Fitz, struggles with his father's toxic notions of what it means to be a man, trying to live up to the heavy expectations as the heir apparent of the Framework. He's searching for a friend, and he finds Lance Hunter--a brawler newly recruited by his father's men. Lance Hunter, however, has some pretty big secrets of his own.
Relationships: Leo Fitz & Jemma Simmons, Leo Fitz/Lance Hunter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 29





	1. Oh, My Broken Battered Body

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic for the AOS Roaring 20s Rarepair Exchange and I had SO much fun writing it. It turned into a multi chapter fic, so I'll be posting one chapter a day until I run out. My recipient is Michael (everythinghappens-love on tumblr), and I really hope you enjoy the story! My prompt was an organized crime AU with one character wanting to lose their virginity. I'll be updating the tags as I go. There is some action and violence in this story so mind the tags!

"Oh, my broken battered body  
In the days when I was younger  
used to fix itself quick sharp  
after every slip and stumble  
but these says I'm collecting scars  
That don't seem to fade."  
\--Frank Turner, "Losing Days"  
***

They called him the Doctor, or Doc, but he wasn’t one, truly. He merely had a steady hand and could usually be relied upon to remain sober, which is how Leopold Fitz found himself underground, his senses wildly overstimulated. The shouts and curses rolled together into a dull rumble like waves breaking, and Leopold couldn’t help wrinkling his nose at the mingled smell of blood, sweat and hard packed earth.

Leopold was also handy with a needle and thread, which is how he found himself stitching the forehead of one of his father’s new enforcers. The man in question had won a hard victory against a much stronger opponent. A few times a year, Leopold’s father and his business partner held one of these all-out brawls to swell their ranks with fresh talent. The victors were stitched up and assigned to a crew; the losers left to bleed.

Leopold’s eyes flicked from his patient’s wound toward the fight currently taking place, distracted by the meaty slap of flesh on flesh. He watched as the two men circled each other in the hazy dim light, bare chests shiny with sweat and bare feet scuffing up clouds of dust. The first competitor was thick and stocky, with fists like great bloody hams leaving punishing bruises on the ribs, chest, and back of his opponent. Said opponent was slight, but covered in lean cords of muscle that rippled under his tanned skin. His trousers slung low on his slender hips, his bare feet flitting around the floor, fleet and graceful like a dancer’s.

“Uh, Doc?”

Leopold startled; he’d been still, watching the fight, his fingers pinching the end of strand of fine silk thread, the other end of which was flowing through the tiny, delicate sutures framing the gaping wound on his patient’s forehead.

Leopold coughed. “Ah, sorry.” Refocusing on the man seated before him on an upturned bucket, he pulled the thread taut and pressed his scissors flush to the side of the man’s face to snip off the end. He dabbed the cut with a wad of cotton soaked in clear liquor. “You’re all set. Come see me in about a week and I can remove the stitches.”

The guy stood, took a huge swing from the glass bottle he’d been holding by the neck. He clapped Leopold roughly on the shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble a half step back.

The man looked him up and down and moved away, laughing. He drained his bottle and flung it against the wall, shattered glass tinkling to join the other detritus on the already cluttered floor.

Leopold flushed, embarrassed, and then turned back to watch the fight. It was the final one of the evening, and the final fight always went a certain way: a ringer paired up against someone small they could pummel mercilessly into the cellar floor—something for the victors to hoot and holler about as they dulled their wounds with drink and gore. This smaller bloke seemed to holding up alright, however. Leopold watched silently from the rear of the crowd, analyzing his tactics. His strategy, such that it was, appeared to be to dance around his great thick tree trunk of an adversary until the latter tired. It worked alright for the start, until the big bastard shot his leg between the other’s skittering feet and sent him sprawling to the ground. It’ll be over soon, Leopold thought. The big guy hauled the smaller one to his feet, forearm pressed up tight under his chin. He sank an enormous fist into the smaller guy’s face, smashing his nose and splitting his lip. The blow sent blood spurting as he drew back his fist for another hit. The smaller guy continued to struggle against the grip as he struggled to breathe, leaving punishing gouges along his captor’s hairy forearm with his desperately clawing fingers.

The big guy let out a roar of frustration, shifting his grip to heave his opponent across the ring as easily as he might toss a raggy doll. The smaller guy howled in agony; he’d landed on a pile of smashed bottles, and Leopold winced knowing that with his pained writhing he was pushing the glass deeper and deeper into his bare flesh.

Leopold wanted nothing more than to turn away, knowing what was coming as he watched the other guy spit on the floor and stomp toward his weakened opponent to finish the job, but he felt rather than saw his father’s eyes boring into the back of his neck and knew he’d be punished for showing weakness. So he made himself watch.

The ringer approached the man on the floor, and slowly, agonizingly, knelt on the man’s chest, grinding him into the glass and pressing the breath from his lungs. Leopold grimaced, but his eyes caught something the big man’s—so intent on his opponent’s misery—did not. The smaller guy’s hand darted out and seized a broken bottle by the neck. He plunged it viciously into the soft meat below his opponent’s ribs, grunting as he ground the jagged glass deeper and deeper with wild, desperate strength. The man on top of him screamed in pain and surprise, and the smaller guy twisted like a snake out of his opponent’s grasp and found his feet. He swung a wild kick, landing the bridge of his foot right on the ringer’s temple who collapsed, unconscious, like a felled tree in a growing pool of blood.

Panting, the winner looked up, brown eyes looking positively feral, and spat a mouthful of blood on his opponent’s back.

His breath came in gasps—the only noise in the room for several seconds before a familiar American accent cut the tension.

“Well well well, boys,” said John Garret, picking his way through the eager crowd. “Looks like we have a winner!” The crowd went mad as Garret lead the bloody young man over to where Leopold stood, speechless.

“You better stitch this one up good, Doc,” said Garret with a wolfish smile that sent Leopold’s skin crawling. Garrett was his father’s business partner. He’d run from America after crossing their law enforcement one too many times, bringing his protégé with him across the pond to take up with the Framework, a gang lead by Alastair Fitz, Leopold’s father. Alastair quickly realized that Garret was everything he wasn’t: charming, friendly, charismatic. The lads followed Alastair out of pure fear; they followed Garret because he made them feel they belonged. Leopold privately felt that his father’s bald malice was easier to stomach than Garret’s snakelike smiles and falsely chummy ways, especially with his adoptive son Grant Ward trailing behind him like a violent shadow—the stick to John’s carrot.

Leopold beckoned silently for the newest recruit to have a seat. The man still hadn’t said a word, his brown eyes darting around the room like a wild animal’s. “Welcome to the Framework, kid,” said Garrett with a wink before moving away to talk to the rest of the men.

Leopold set about cleaning off his patient’s face and chest with a damp, warm cloth. He placed his hands on the sides of the man’s face, leaning close and pressing his thumbs to the sides of his nose, checking for a break. “Well,” Leopold said, “you’ll have a stunning bruise but it’s not broken.”

He paused, catching the new guy’s eyes: warm, rich and chocolatey brown. The man swallowed. “Thanks, mate.”

Leopold’s mouth was suddenly dry, so he instructed him to spin on the stool with a wordless twist of his finger. The guy swung around so Leopold could investigate the wounds on his back. Leopold sucked in a breath at the sight; the shards of glass were buried deep and would take some time to extract. He held his long tweezers over a candle flame to sanitize them and set to work. His charge held out for quite a while before the pain got the best of him. As Leopold dug one especially large piece out of his shoulder he let out a yelp. “Bloody hell man, are you a doctor or a butcher?”

Leopold flinched. “Honestly? Neither.”

The other grunted as Leopold continued to gouge the glass from the wound. “Well mate, you definitely have a future in the meat packing district if this gig doesn’t pan out.”

Leopold chuckled. “What’s your name?” He ventured, trying to take the man’s mind off his pain. The next bits were going to be even worse; Leopold knew he’d have to use his scalpel to excise the fragments completely. He heated the blade over the flame.

“Hunter,” hissed the man through gritted teeth. “Lance Hunter.”

“Well, Lance,” said Leopold allowing the blade to cool slightly. “This next part won’t be pretty.”

“Oh well, as opposed to—AUUUUUGH!” He growled and cursed as Leopold dug the scalpel into his flesh. Finally, the worst was over. Leopold’s hands and Hunter’s back were soaked in blood. 

Hunter panted, trembling as Leopold gently cleaned each wound. As he washed the fresh blood away, Leopold noticed a tattoo on Hunter’s shoulder: a mockingbird with a name inscribed below it. Barbara.

Taking care not to disturb the tattoo, Leopold stitched the worst of the wounds and bandaged the rest.

“Well, Mr. Hunter,” said Leopold, laying down his shears and wiping the sweat from his brow. “You’ll live to brawl another day. I’ll need to remove the stitches in about a week.”

Hunter turned to Leopold, eyes still fever bright with pain. “Thanks mate. I never got your name.” He stuck out his hand.

“Leopold Fitz.”

“Well, Leopold Fitz, I sincerely hope I never require your services again.” He winked, swung his leg over the makeshift stool and meandered over to where John Garret stood with the rest of the new recruits, wooing them with his signature charm.

“Let’s take this party to the pub!” He called, to raucous hollers. “First round’s on me!” He threw an arm around Hunter’s shoulders and said, “I just won a lot of money betting on this guy.” Everyone laughed and moved to the bulkhead to leave the basement and spill out onto the cobbled streets of London.

Leopold lingered over his tools, his mind already wandering to the bath in his rooms where he could sink down into steaming water hot enough to boil away the stink of this day.

“Leopold.”

He couldn’t help it, he shivered. The rowdy crowd of men had already departed; only his father remained behind, approaching his son on silent feet. Alastair Fitz’s voice was a quiet growl, but the sound of it caused Leopold’s guts to clench all the same. “Are y’not going to the pub with the lads?”

Leopold forced himself to look his father in the eye. “I wasn’t planning on it, no.” He wiped the blood from his hands with a towel to conceal their shaking.

“You disappoint me,” said Alastair. “You finally stopped fainting at the sight of a little blood, but you’ve got quite a ways to go before the lads see you as my son, as a man.”

“And getting bloody pissed at the pub will help with that?”

Alastair searched his son’s face. “Aye, I think it will.”

“And why don’t you go then?”

It was like the temperature in the basement dropped fifteen degrees. Alastair’s eyes flashed, and the tiny muscle in his neck clenched—all it took to leave Leopold wanting to flee in abject terror.

Alastair stepped slowly, deliberately into his son’s space and it didn’t even occur to Leopold to move away. His father’s hand darted out, seizing Leopold’s jaw, his iron fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. He leaned in close and hissed, “Do you think anyone forgets that I’m a man?”

Leopold twitched his head no, but his father only pushed his fingers deeper into the skin on his son’s jaw. He drew back his other hand and delivered a stinging slap to the side of his face, the hand grasping his jaw unyielding as Leopold’s eyes burned with shame.

“Now go,” said Alastair. He shoved Leopold away from him, hard. Face hot with humiliation, Leopold scrambled to flee out the bulkhead doors.

The night air was bracing, and the pub was just around the corner so it didn’t take much of a jog for Leopold to catch them up. Garrett was fawning over Hunter, introducing him to the rest of the lads. Leopold hung back. He’d sit at the bar, go through the motions and leave as soon as he could slip away. Already planning his exit strategy, Leopold was pulled abruptly from his thoughts by Grant Ward, who’d slowed his pace. He nudged Leopold’s arm. “What happened to your face?”

Leopold scowled. “Nothing.”

Grant smirked. “Well, maybe if you didn’t keep your face smooth as a girl’s you could cover those bruises.”

He showed signs of wanting to talk more but Leopold kept his eyes fixated straight ahead. As far as he was concerned, Ward was cut from the same cloth as his father: smarmy, charming and false.

They reached the pub, already filled with patrons—the smartest of whom surreptitiously settled up and filed out when they saw the Framework lads roll in. This was their domain.

Leopold went to the bar, eyes down. The barmaid recognized him instantly. “Let me guess. Dry Martini? Three olives?” The barmaids always doted on him, possibly because he’d never tried to shove his hand up their skirts and actually spoke to their faces.

“You know me too well.” Leopold smiled at her and spun on the stool, wondering how long he’d have to stay before he could escape to his bath and his books. The victors of the evening’s fights were not buying their own drinks. True to his word, Garrett had seized a bottle of whiskey and was pouring shot after shot into their glasses. Leopold found his gaze catching Hunter’s more than once. There was something honest in those sweet brown eyes, and Leopold wondered how Hunter had found himself in the underworld. As Leopold watched the men, Ward moseyed back over to the bar and ordered his favorite drink: the Ward 8. He thought it was the height of clever; the drink had originated in Boston, just like Ward himself. It was a little frou-frou compared to the usual type of drinks the lads ordered, thought Leopold sourly—he certainly could never get away ordering something like that. Then again, Ward could have drunk champagne from the Queen’s bloody crystal and still pound every man here into the ground—so no one gave him grief about it.

Ward was a killing machine. It had been that, more than anything, that had originally gotten Garret an audience with Leopold’s father. At one of the recruiting brawls several years ago, Ward had taken on every challenger with a calculated, detached brutality so impressive that it had leveraged a meeting between his father and Leopold’s. Garret had his son to thank entirely for his high position in the Framework, but with every breath convinced him of the opposite. That was Garrett’s genius, Alastair had explained to Leopold one night. That’s why he was the right kind of partner.

Leopold nursed his martini, and no one approached him to make conversation. He sighed. He knew his father would hear about it if he didn’t at least make an effort. Leopold scanned the room and saw Hunter sitting alone at a two top. He approached him cautiously.

“Well if it isn’t the friendly neighborhood butcher,” said Hunter with an inviting smile. He nudged the empty chair out with a foot. Leopold sat down.

He was at an absolute loss of what to say. Hunter waited expectantly, his brows quizzical, clearly wondering why Leopold had come over if he was just going to sit there like a deaf mute. Hunter’s narrow face was framed by a close cropped scruff, and he favored an almost militaristic haircut: brutally short on the sides with a little texture on top. His cheekbones were high and defined, and the beard didn’t quite disguise the sweet little dimples beside his smile. Leopold realized he was staring and searched his vacant brain frantically for a proper topic of conversation.

“So,” he said, “Erm, is Barbara your girl then?”

Hunter’s expression darkened with such immediacy that Leopold was alarmed. Hunter stared down into his whisky glass. “She was.”

Leopold didn’t want to pry, so he waited to see if Hunter would go on. He didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” said Leopold in a hushed voice. “I didn’t mean t’upset you.”

“Oh it’s fine, mate. I just miss her.” Hunter smiled sadly. “She was smart, tough, saved my arse more than once. A bloody great partner.”

Leopold wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he took a gulp from his drink to compensate. Compared to how the lads usually spoke of their girls, this seemed a very peculiar way to describe a lover.

“She sounds lovely,” Leopold prompted. “Barbara’s a pretty name.”

Hunter threw back his head and laughed. “She’d positively kill me if she saw I’d gotten her full name tattooed on my shoulder. She hated it. Went by Bobbi.”

“What happened to her?”

Hunter’s frown returned and he knocked back the rest of his drink. “She died.”

The silence between them was thick as custard.

“Leopold!” He jumped. It was the barmaid. “Could you c’mere love? The bloody till is jammed again.”

Leopold opened his mouth to excuse himself, but Hunter waved him off, brooding silently over his empty glass.

As he crossed the crowded room to fix the till, Leopold cast a glance back over his shoulder and frowned to see his seat was unceremoniously filled by John Garrett, who was filling Hunter’s glass and leaning in for a whispered conversation. 

***


	2. Something Normal People Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Lance Hunter, and Leopold's father trusts him with a significant role in the gang's upcoming score.

"I thought that suffering   
was something profound  
that weighed down  
Wise heads--  
Not just something to be avoided,  
something normal people dread."  
-Frank Turner, "Tell Tale Signs"

***

The sun was almost spilling over the London skyline by the time Lance Hunter was able to extricate himself from the victory celebration. He pulled his coat collar up high against the dawn chill and walked down the lane toward the boarding house he’d picked to stay in.

Half hungover and sore form his wounds, Hunter entered the front door and went up to his rooms. After splashing cold water on his face, he stripped off his blood stained undershirt and exchanged it for a fresh one. He pulled a crisp white button down from the wardrobe, wincing as he pulled it across his shoulders. He finished dressing, pulling the brim of a slate grey Hamburg down low to conceal his bruised face. An unassuming grey trench coat completed the ensemble. Sparing himself a quick glance in the mirror, Lance Hunter holstered a Smith and Wesson thirty eight at his hip and pried open his window. He squinted down the deserted streets and hopped out onto the adjacent roof.

Hunter returned to the street a few blocks away, shaking out his coat and assuming a nonchalant pace. He walked in silence for some time, finally arriving at a posh little café just as it opened. He walked in to the mostly empty shop and ordered a coffee at the counter. He sat down, pulled out a newspaper, sipped his coffee, and waited.

When the bell tinkled at the door several moments later, Hunter ignored it. A middle aged man walked in and ordered a coffee, sitting down one stool away from Hunter’s.

Hunter did not remove his eyes from his from his newspaper. “Inspector Coulson,” he said.

“Agent Hunter,” the man replied.

The cafe slowly filled around them as the men drank their coffee, neither turning fully toward the other. Hunter continued to read his paper and Coulson perused the menu.

“How did it go?” Asked Coulson.

Hunter’s eyes flicked toward him. “I made it in. Garrett is putting me on a crew.”

Coulson nodded as if this was nothing of note. “I’d love to get my hands on that son of a bitch,” he said conversationally out of the corner of his mouth. “We’ve been after him for years.”

“You don’t have to tell me. His pet psychopath Ward was there, as well.”

Coulson’s cool facade cracked for a moment. “Hunter,” he said, voice full of concern.

“Yes sir?”

Coulson paused to order breakfast from a passing waitress, his lined face relaxing into an easy smile. When she left, his expression changed.

“These guys run with a...certain type,” he said, with the air of tiptoeing around his actual point.

“And?”

“And I’m nervous you might be inclined to overcompensate, put yourself at risk, because—“

Hunter’s eyes bored directly into Coulson’s for the first time. “Because why?”

“Because this Op is personal to you.”

A muscle went twitchy in Hunter’s jaw. “This has nothing to do with Bobbi.”

“Of course it does. Losing a partner hits hard, and Agent Morse was one of our best. It’s personal for me, too, Hunter.”

Hunter turned back to his paper and they let the noise of the cafe swell around them.

“I had to win the fight.”

“Hunter, your face looks like the continental breakfast buffet at my hotel—and I cannot stress enough how cheap the hotel is.” Hunter’s lips twitched and he turned to glance at Coulson again. His face was stern but his eyes were kind. “I lost Bobbi. I can’t lose you too.”

Hunter sighed, folded his paper and tossed a few coins on the table. “You picked me for this mission because you knew I could get in, hit hard, and get the job done.”

“Actually I picked you because you’re my only agent with an English Accent.” Coulson’s eyes twinkled.

Hunter grinned. “And don’t you bloody forget it.” He swung his leg over the stool and stood to leave.

Coulson grabbed his arm as he passed. “I mean it, Agent Hunter, be careful.”

Hunter nodded in response, clapped Coulson discreetly on the shoulder, and left the shop.

***

Leopold was in his sanctuary: browsing the stacks at Daniels & Simmons, the local bookshop. The shop was quiet this time of night; Leopold was the only patron. The owner, Jemma Simmons, was Leopold’s closest friend. She was the only person he knew who had no part of his father’s world, and he loved her for that.

He listened to her soft humming as she counted down her till. Leopold ran his fingers idly down the spine of a book, pretending to consider the title but really peeping over the tops of the volumes at Jemma.

She was very beautiful with creamy pale skin and a healthy blush to her cheeks. Jemma had lively brown eyes and soft brown curls, a sharp wit and a sweet disposition. They spent many evenings together, as many as Leopold could spare, reading, discussing books and drinking tea. Not for the first time, he tried to imagine coming home to her every night, eating dinner together and sharing a bed. It was a lovely picture, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to want it.

He didn’t think she did, either; she’d lost her husband Will Daniels to the fighting during the Somme offensive, mere months after they’d wed. Leopold had heard her declare on multiple occasions that she has no desire to remarry.

The bell tinkled at the door to the shop, and Leopold felt a twinge of annoyance. Closing was his and Jemma’s time; he’d just been about to put the kettle on the stove at the back of the shop for them to share, and now they’d have to wait for this sod to vacate the premises. Jemma’s humming stopped abruptly and she let out a tiny gasp of surprise. Leopold came out from his hiding place and found himself staring at the unmistakable back of Grant Ward’s head. Ward was leaning over the counter into Jemma’s space, speaking softly to demand she remain close enough to hear him. Her eyes cast frantically around the shop, finally lighting on Leopold. The split second of relief that crossed her expression wasn’t lost on Ward, who turned around with an easy smile.

“There he is,” he said, “just the man I was looking for.”

Jemma scowled freely now that Ward’s attention was elsewhere.

“What d’you want, Ward?” Asked Leopold, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You’re wanted back home.”

“Now?”

Ward picked a piece of debris from under his finger nail and flicked it away. A tiny disgusted noise escaped between Jemma’s pursed lips. “Yes, now,” said Ward.

Leopold moved around the counter for a word with Jemma. Ward hummed, comfortable in the awkward moment.

“Can you give us a moment?” Asked Leopold, when Ward showed no signs of moving.

He grinned, staring at Jemma far longer than was polite, and backed slowly out the door. When it clicked shut behind him, Jemma scurried from behind the counter to click the lock. She flipped the sign on the glass from “Open” to “closed,” and spun back toward Leopold.

“I’m sorry,” he began in a pleading tone but she held up a hand to silence him.

“I love our talks, Fitz,” she said, gaze firm, “but I cannot abide those men coming by here.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ll remind them.”

She came closer and cupped his cheek in her soft hand. “When are you going to leave that horrid world behind?” She whispered, eyes searching his face.

Leopold covered her hand in his, giving her fingers a little squeeze. “You know I can’t.”

Jemma sighed, drawing away from him. “Well, go on then, before he comes back in here.”

Leopold nodded goodbye to Jemma and followed Ward out into the cold.

They walked in silence for a while, before Ward glanced slyly at Leopold and said, “So when is that sweet little widow going to make an honest woman out of you, Fitz?”

“Grow up, Ward.”

Ward smirked. “Me and the guys have a bet going. I win the pool if you manage to get her into bed before the New Year.”

Leopold ignored him and marched onward, head bowed against the swirling wind. Ward couldn’t be deterred, however. “I see you took my advice.”

Leopold had indeed begun to let his beard grow out. He ran his fingertips over the wiry red stubble, scratching absently at the new growth. “Yeah, well. Broken clock can still be tight twice a day,” he muttered.

Ward just laughed.

They turned a corner and walked the rest of the way to the meet in blessed silence.

The room was smoky and crowded. Leopold tried immediately to squeeze his way through the press to get away from Ward. He spied Hunter in the crowd and sidled up beside him.

“How’re the stitches?” He asked, nudging his elbow into Hunter’s side.

Hunter nudged him back. “The bloody itching is enough to drive me mad.”

Leopold smiled. “Only a few days and I can take them out.”

Garrett whistled, calling the meeting to order.

“Gentlemen,” Alastair’s voice rumbled, and the room fell silent as snowfall. Leopold stood up a little straighter, tensing at the sound of his father’s voice. “Hopefully you all don’t need to be told that this operation is of critical importance. We have some old hats here,” his cold grey eyes cast over those assembled, “and some new faces. All will be utilized toward the success of this plan.”

Leopold’s brows knit together. It was rare for him to be invited to one of these meetings. Garrett began calling out names; the men jostled around each other to move forward, each receiving their assignments and moving out of the way.

“Ward, Hunter,” a pause. “And Fitz.”

Leopold startled, sure he was hearing wrong. “Come on, then,” Hunter whispered, nudging Leopold forward.

Trying desperately not to stumble, Leopold approached the front.

“Leopold,” said Alastair, stepping down from the platform and placing his hands on Leopold’s shoulders. “My son. I have a task in this job that’s tailor made for you.”

Leopold was certain he didn’t like the sound of that, but he knew better than to say so. He swallowed, looking up into his father’s eyes, and waited for him to continue.

“There’s a scientist in from Glasgow. He’ll be taking in the opera this Friday night. It’s absolutely imperative we make contact and bring him into the fold.”

Garrett appeared at Alastair’s elbow. “You’re the only one that can schmooze with the intelligentsia, little Fitz.” He winked. Leopold caught his father’s lip curl in distaste, but he didn’t think anyone else did. “We’ve got Hunter the bruiser here posing as your driver. This scientist, Radcliffe, is the skittish type so he’s sure to have some muscle with him.”

“And Ward?”

Garret flung an arm around his son’s shoulders. “Ward will be doing what he does best,” he said.

The rest was details. Leopold did his best to act like he was part of this type of briefing all the time but his head was swimming, so when they adjourned and Hunter said, “Hey, mate, you look like you could use a pint,” Leopold was in no condition to resist.

Leopold held silent as they walked away from the docks toward the usual pub. When they got to the door, Hunter moved to open it but Leopold hung back. He could see all the faces he recognized through the foggy glass, laughing in the light of candles and gaslight, and suddenly he wished to be anywhere but there. Most nights the pub was packed to the rafters with Framework lads, and this night was no exception. Everything was tumbling about in Leopold’s brain: Jemma’s concern, his own confusion about being involved in an operation after all this time, his new beard growing in to conceal his bruises, his weakness—all of it became too much. Leopold felt his knees go to water and it was all he could do to keep his feet. Hunter held the door open and turned to Leopold, but catching the look on the latter’s face he tilted his head to the side, eyes quizzical.

“You alright mate?”

Leopold sent his gaze skyward. “Could we maybe go somewhere else?” He asked, voice breaking.

Hunter moved closer and clapped him on the shoulder. Leopold looked back down, meeting his eyes. “I know a place,” said Hunter, smiling.

Leopold cleared his throat and returned the smile in a shaky sort of way. “Lead on.”

In a quiet little pub on an unassuming side street, Leopold and Hunter sat side by side at the bar. They were well into their second pints of thick, yeasty beer before Hunter cleared his throat and said, “So did you want to tell me what’s on your mind, then?”

“Nah,” said Leopold, swirling the dark liquid around in his glass. He frowned, setting it down on the sticky wooden bar. “Yes, actually.”

Hunter flagged down the bartender. “Two whiskeys, my good man. And keep ‘em coming.” The man smiled and left the bottle.

Leopold downed his shot in one. Hunter refilled it promptly before turning to listen, elbow on the bar, chin resting on his hand.

“The thing is,” said Leopold, contemplating the second shot. “I’ve been a part of the Framework since I was fourteen when my mum died.” He knocked back the second shot. His throat burned and his eyes swam. Hunter’s eyes were sympathetic as he knocked back his own drink and refilled their glasses again. “I would have rather my Da just leave me alone but he insisted I be there, with him, always. I’m not stupid—I know I’m not cut out for this life,” Leopold’s throat constricted painfully. “M’weak.”

Hunter frowned. “Why d’you say that? Because dumb cunts like Ward can take a few punches and you can’t?”

Leopold smiled thinly. “It’s more than that,” he said, thoughts coming to mind a bit slower. “It’s everything. Why does he even want me to be a part of this job?”

“I don’t really know you, mate,” admitted Hunter, resting his hand on Leopold’s shoulder. He squeezed it gently and Leopold felt something hot and electric swoop through his guts. Hunter moved his thumb in small circles, gently kneading a tense knot he found there. “But it seems to me you’ve got a fair bit of talent those knuckle dragging Neanderthals couldn’t even come close to.” Hunter have a final squeeze and picked up his glass and drank.

Leopold turned to face him. “Knuckle dragging Neanderthals?”

“Every last one of ‘em,” confirmed Hunter.

“What about you?”

Hunter’s eyes twinkled. “Especially me.”

They cheersed, throwing back another shot apiece. Hunter continued to ply Leopold with drinks, the night getting sillier the drunker they got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title from this chapter comes from the song "Telltale Signs," by Frank Turner


	3. I Catch Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leopold prepares for his part in the Framework's upcoming job at the Opera. Hunter comes to grip with some complicated feelings.

"And then I catch myself  
Catching your scent on someone else  
in a crowded space  
and it takes me somewhere I cannot quite place."

\--Frank Turner, "The Way I Tend To Be"

***

“Well Hunter, you look...”

“Don’t even bother, Coulson, I know I look like complete shite,” Hunter snapped, groaning as he lowered himself down onto the stool.

The two met at their posh little cafe again. Hunter rested his hat on his kneecap and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “They’re after some scotch scientist,” he told Coulson out of the corner of his mouth.

Coulson frowned. “Who?”

“Some bloke Radcliffe. They’re making contact Friday night at the opera house.”

Coulson considered this briefly, poking his eggs with a bit of toast. “I could send in May; scoop up this scientist Friday night. Figure out why they need him.”

Hunter shook his head. “I don’t think this meet is any sort of end game. They need him for something. Something big.”

Coulson nodded. “Then I trust your judgement,” he paused as Hunter visibly winced upon hearing the waitress clatter a plate to the counter. “You know, usually.”

Hunter contemplated his breakfast before pushing the plate away, pulling a face and looking a little green. Coulson raised his eyebrows. “You wanna tell me why you rolled in here looking like a corpse I once pulled out of a Baltimore sewer?”

Hunter groaned again, resting his forehead on the counter top. “My in,” he mumbled. “Went out last night, got pissed. Gave me good intel.”

“That’s great! Who’s the in?”

“Alastair Fitz’s son.”

Hunter rolled his head, peering at Coulson with his temple pressed against the cool counter. He watched the color drain from Coulson’s face.

“Dammit, Hunter.”

“What?” He asked, defensive.

“I can pull you off this Op. Maybe I should.”

Hunter sat bolt upright, regretting it instantly as the cafe swam around him and blood pounded behind his eyes. “What?” He hissed. “Why?”

Coulson gave him a knowing look. “Hunter. I’ve known you a long time.”

“Too bloody right,” said Hunter. “So you should know I won’t blow this mission.”

“Fitz’s son is too close to things. The mission was for you to be in the periphery, get some workable intel, rise through the ranks. These guys—Fitz, Garret—they haven’t been easy for us to track down. These old gangsters got old for a reason. They are wary, ruthless killers. If you get too close to them and you get made—“

“I won’t get made.”

Coulson searched his face. “I don’t want you to lose yourself, either.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “You going to pull me out?”

Coulson seemed to fight with himself for a moment but remained silent.

“Didn’t think so,” said Hunter, returning to his staring contest with his breakfast.

*** 

Leopold woke up with his guts churning and his head fit to burst. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He sat up and the room pitched and spun around him. As such, it took him a few nauseated moments to realize he didn’t recognize the room, or the bed. “Where am I?”

There was a knock at the door, but it sounded like the person was banging on the inside of his skull. The temptation to yell “Go away!” Was a strong one, but considering it wasn’t his own home, his confidence left him and he instead groaned, “Come in.”

“Well dear, I didn’t want you to miss breakf—oh goodness!” An older woman carrying a breakfast tray nudged the door open with her hip, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw Leopold.

“Who are you?” She yelped, nearly dropping the tray.

Leopold realized for the first time that he was half naked. He yanked the blanket up to cover himself. “I’m sorry, I erm—“

“Ah Mrs. S, this is Leopold Fitz. He’s a friend from work.” Hunter had appeared at the woman’s elbow.

“Oh, well, young man. You gave me such a fright. I wish you’d tell me before bringing strangers home,” she scolded Hunter.

He looked very contrite. “Sorry Mrs. S. We got in late from the pub last night. Didn’t want to wake you.”

She smiled, handed Hunter the tray and patted him on the cheek. “You’re a good boy,” she said fondly. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.”

Mrs. S. Retreated down the creaky old steps, leaving a heavy awkward silence in her wake. Leopold felt a flush of embarrassment crawl over his skin.

He looked around the room. “So, where are we?”

Hunter grinned, looking a bit sheepish. “We may have enjoyed a bit too much sauce last night, mate.”

Leopold groaned and collapsed back on the pillows, letting Hunter continue.

“I kept trying to ask where you lived but you wouldn’t tell me. My flat was close, so.” Hunter shrugged.

Leopold lifted the edge of the blanket, peeking down at himself. “So erm, did you take off my trousers then?”

Hunter blushed. “No, mate, you did that yourself.”

Leopold dropped the blanket. “Ah.”

Hunter held up his hands. “I kipped on the sofa, don’t worry.”

There was another awkward pause. Hunter ran his hand over the back of his head. “Well, you can share my breakfast if you like—“

“I’d rather just be getting on,” Leopold interrupted.

Hunter frowned. “Oh, well, alright.” He turned his back, allowing Leopold to scramble for his clothes and dress in a hurry. Leopold did his best to ignore the desire to vomit as he pulled his trousers on and did up his shirt buttons.

“Well,” said Leopold as he reaches the door. He stuck his hand out. “Thanks for...” he trailed away. Hunter nodded, taking Leopold’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

Leopold felt a feeble sort of twitch behind his navel, and not wishing to humiliate himself further by spewing all over his host, He took his leave of Hunter’s flat.

The sunlight burned his retina as he reached the street. Leopold struggled to find his bearings. Eventually, he recognized a landmark and set off for his own flat. As he walked, Leopold did his best to avoid looking at the sun and to piece together the events of the previous evening. Wincing, he vaguely remembered himself and Hunter toasting sillier and sillier things as they lost track of how much they’d drunk.

“And I like your new beard,” Hunter had slurred, clinking his glass against Leopold’s.

“To my beard!” Leopold had agreed, laughing.

His cheeks burned at the memory, and he paused to brace himself against a lamp post. Leopold willed himself not to vomit as his head gave a sickening throb. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten truly properly pissed; upon reflecting he thought it might have been the night of his mother’s funeral. He’d been fourteen, and come home for the first time to their empty flat in Glasgow. He’d found a crystal decanter of brandy and drunk the whole thing, spending the evening heaving his guts out and sobbing in turn. He’d passed out on the floor of the loo and been kicked into consciousness the following morning by a terrifying and cold eyed man claiming to be his father.

“Get up,” he’d said, deadly quiet. Leopold had moaned, unable to move. Alastair grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him to his feet.

“I see that woman let you get soft,” he’d said. “No more.”

Leopold had avoided drinking to excess since that day—until last night, that is. He tried to call back a few more memories, and they came disjointed and confusing.

Hunter laughing, leaning into starting a fight with some strangers. Leopold yanking him out into the street. Stumbling together down an alley, Leopold hurling into a puddle. Hunter hauling him up a flight of stairs. Leopold struggling to slip out of his trousers and falling face down on the bed. Hunter tenderly tucking the blanket around him, soft hands brushing the sweat dampened curls from his forehead...

Leopold shook his head. He wanted to get home and crawl into his own bed; he had a mind to sleep away the whole rest of the day. Life had other plans. “Oh bloody hell,” Leopold muttered as he approached his door. Grant Ward reclined against the frame, ladies’ dress bag over his arm and smirk on his face.

“Well well well,” he said as Leopold approached with a resigned sigh.

“Ward.”

“What time do we call this?”

“I had thought it was time for me to get to bed, but I sense you’ve got something less pleasant for me to do?”

Ward shook out the dress bag. “Picked this out for your widow to wear to the opera.”

Leopold knuckled his eyes, brain trying to catch up. “Jemma?”

“You sniffing pathetically around any other girls lately?”

Leopold ignored the jab. “Why?”

Ward twitched his shoulder upward, unconcerned. “Your pop said so.”

Leopold took the hanger and frowned down at the bag.

“If you haven’t asked her yet you better hustle on over there. Opera’s in two days.” He moved to block the door into the flat, and the implication was clear.

***

“The dress is lovely, Fitz, but that’s really not the point.”

Still hungover, Leopold slouched over the counter at Daniels & Simmons. He’d been pleading with Jemma for the better part of an hour, practically chasing her around the bookshop as she went about her tasks.

“Jemma...”

“I can’t be a part of your family shenanigans,” she said, lowering her voice to a tense whisper.

“It’s not shenanigans,” said Leopold, exasperated. “It’s just you and me, taking in a lovely evening of music, during intermission I nip off to speak with a gentleman from Glasgow, back before the second act curtain.”

Jemma gave him a withering look. “You must think I’m an absolute idiot!”

Leopold groaned, sinking his head down on his folded arms. He wanted nothing more than to be home in his bath. “Of course I don’t,” he said into his jacket sleeve. He peeked up. “Please, Jemma.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” she said. Throwing up her hands. “I’ll go. But only because you look so pitiful.”

He nodded. “Very.”

“And we’re going to dinner before,” she said, matter of factly.

“Of course.”

“And I will absolutely NOT partake of any—“

“—shenanigans, yes, I know,” he sighed, straightening up. “I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Can’t wait.”

**

Hunter was nervous. He hadn’t seen Leopold since the other morning which had ended...awkwardly. Hunter would have been happy to avoid him until their job on Friday, but he knew he had to get his stitches removed.

He knocked hesitantly on the door to Leopold’s flat.

“Come in!”

Hunter shuffled through the door. He saw that Leopold’s flat was organized, sparsely appointed and meticulously clean.

Leopold had set up a wooden stool in his sitting room beside a small table with neatly arrayed medical tools, cotton swabs, and a bottle of clear liquor.

Hunter watched as Leopold’s blue eyes flicked toward him and then away again. Leopold coughed, gesturing at the seat. Hunter sat. The silence was painful—stretching on and on. He had to say something.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” they said together.

Hunter spun on the stool; they grinned at each other, tension breaking.

“Well then, Mr. Hunter, let’s take a look.”

Hunter undid the buttons of his shirt, casting it to the side before lifting the hem of his undershirt and discarding that as well. The room was drafty, raising goose flesh across Hunter’s torso. He felt oddly like he was on display, perched low on the stool as Leopold prowled around him in a thoughtful circle. Staring.

Hunter could feel himself begin to flush, tingles starting in his chest and creeping up his neck to his scruffy cheeks.

“Everything looks to be healing nicely,” said Leopold. He paused around Hunter’s back, and the latter resisted the urge to spin around to face the man standing behind him.

Leopold brushed the tips of his fingers gently across the worst of Hunter’s wounds, soft as a feather—but insistent, probing the tender flesh. Hunter shivered violently, electrified.

“Does that hurt?” Asked Leopold, pulling his hand away, concerned.

“No,” said Hunter, his voice dry. He swallowed. “Your hands are just a bit cold,” he lied.

“Ah, right, sorry about that.”

A loud hiss caused Hunter to jump again; he hadn’t realized he’d squeezed his eyes shut. They flew open at the noise.

“It’s just the gas,” said Leopold, and Hunter could hear a hint of smile in his voice. “I’m surprised you’re this skittish. I didn’t think anything would scare you.”

Hunter turned his head and saw indeed that Leopold was tinkering with a small gas lamp, turning the knob to get a hot spike of flame to sanitize his tools.

“You’re one to talk,” said Hunter, struggling to regain the upper hand. “You’re suddenly steady as a bloody stone with that knife in your hand.”

Leopold didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the scalpel with a tiny crease between his eyebrows. “I suppose I am,” he said in surprise. He moved the blade from the flame and gave Hunter a small smile. “Being armed will do that, I guess.”

Hunter chewed his tongue and waited, bracing himself for the bite of hot steel. Leopold’s hands were indeed quite steady, however. All Hunter felt was a slight heat radiating from the blade and an unpleasant series of tugs as the scalpel slid through the silk of the stitches, severing each one. He could also feel Leopold‘s breath, warm on his neck, coming in delicate little puffs as he worked the blade.

“There,” said Leopold, setting down the scalpel with clink. He lifted a pair of tweezers to the flame as well before using them to pull each fragment of thread from the cut. “You’ll have a scar, but it’s healed up alright.”

He soaked a wad of cotton in the clear alcohol and pressed it to the wound. This truly was cold, so Hunter twitched again as a chilly droplet slid down his spine. Thankfully, Leopold appeared not to notice. “I’d like to check on this again in a few days, make sure it doesn’t catch an infection.”

“I look forward to it,” said Hunter before he could stop himself. His cheeks were positively burning as he busied himself with his shirt buttons. He couldn’t flee the flat fast enough.

He closed the front door and leaned his back against it with a sigh. “Shite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the song "The Way I Tend to Be," by Frank Turner.


	4. The Ghosts of Vaudeville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leopold, Jemma and Hunter attend the opera and meet Dr. Radcliffe. Jemma and Leopold come to an arrangement.

"We are respected;  
but we're not remembered.  
We are the ghosts of Vaudeville, un-numbered.  
We are the fathers of the halls,   
yeah but we'll never be famous.  
We aren't just artists, we are something more:  
We're entertainers."

\--Frank Turner, "Balthazar, Impressario."

***

The night of the Opera, Leopold fussed over his appearance. He used a comb to part his hair to the side in a severe line, sleek and tidy. He’d seen his father’s barber, gotten his beard trimmed and tried on three different suits before selecting a slate grey wool number and a navy blue tie. He tucked an elegant watch in the pocket and considered himself in the mirror. With his new beard and styled hair he hardly recognized himself. He quite liked it.

He buckled on his coat and went downstairs to wait for Hunter to bring the car around. He checked his watch; he’d be right on time to collect Jemma for dinner before the opera. He’d bought her some flowers, thinking he may as well do the thing properly. He clutched them as he stood by the curb. Hunter pulled up and hopped out of the car, embracing his role as body man whole-heartedly. He looked very smart in a crisp black uniform, perfectly tailored to his fit body—the absolute image of a respectable valet.

“Sir,” he said with a rakish wink, opening the door for Leopold to get in.

They drove most of the way to Jemma’s in silence, Leopold looking out the window, trying to ignore the strange gymnastics going on in his gut.

Jemma was waiting anxiously under the awning of Daniels & Simmons, looking absolutely fetching in her new dress. The dress was a deep navy velvet sheath with a handkerchief hem, the points of which came to just below Jemma’s knees. Her slim calves were bare, and she wore high heeled silver t strap shoes. Completing the ensemble were a pair elbow length gloves and a long chain of pearls looped around her neck. She’d swept her hair back in a low knot, leaving a few wisps framing her face.

Hunter pulled over by the sidewalk and got out to open Leopold’s door again. “This is going to be bloody exhausting,” Hunter muttered in his ear, making him grin. Leopold handed Jemma her flowers and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. “You look lovely,” he said.

“And you’re very dashing yourself,” she said, accepting the bouquet and inhaling deeply. “Oh, I love peonies,” she sighed. She held them in the crook of her arm and reached out, straightening Leopold’s tie. “Shall we?”

He offered her a hand, helping her up into the car.

“This is all very posh, isn’t it?” She said, reclining into the soft leather seats.

“And you thought you’d have a miserable time.”

She smelled her flowers again. “Perhaps I’m warming to the idea.”

The restaurant was exquisite. They enjoyed champagne and oysters and when Jemma brought up the latest novel she’d read, Leopold jumped on the conversation eagerly. Hunter waited outside by the car, leaning against the side and chatting up one of the other valets. Leopold found his eyes flitting toward him; the soft glow from the street lamp gave his jaw a sculpted quality that Leopold found—after his second glass of champagne—to be quite arresting.

“Hello, Fitz?”

Leopold started. Jemma flashed him a puzzled look, and he saw her brown eyes dart to where he’d been staring. She cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing of it; she merely smiled faintly and repeated what she’d said about Edith Wharton.

They finally reached the theater after a beautiful meal, and Leopold wished he’d thought of his nerves more when ordering his food. His stomach was churning and the rich food was not sitting well. His heart seemed to be fighting aggressively to escape his rib cage. He was annoyed and embarrassed, as his part of this job was pathetically simple. Namely: make contact with Holden Radcliffe, distract him while Hunter moved through the crowd eliminating any of his hired muscle, and give Ward time to take out the car attendant, steal his uniform and take his place.

Jemma took his arm as they ascended the steps to the theatre. “You’re sweating,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah I feel that, thanks,” Leopold groused. He slid out his handkerchief and tried to dab inconspicuously at the moisture beading on his forehead.

Hunter handed the keys to the car attendant and trailed behind Leopold and Jemma. Out of the corner of his eye, Leopold saw Hunter’s hands move across his vest and down to the waist of his trousers—checking his weapons were properly stowed, no doubt.

Leopold tugged on the edges of his vest, and compulsively smoothed the sides of his hair. He was being ridiculous. All he has to do was escort his friend to the theatre and enjoy an opera. He took a deep breath, steadied himself and moved his hand from the crook of Jemma’s elbow to slide his arm possessively around her waist. He gave her hip a gentle squeeze, flashed the clerk at the ticket window a confident smile and said, “Three, under Fitz?”

“Yes of course, Mr. Fitz,” said the attendant, beckoning them toward an usher. Jemma seemed startled by the sudden shift in Leopold’s demeanor but no matter, he retreated into the role he was playing and steered her toward the usher, who lead them to their seats in one of the private boxes. Leopold slipped the usher a generous tip, cool as you please, and took his seat at Jemma’s side.

Jemma could convey quite a lot with her eyebrows, Leopold had learned—especially that evening. Right now her face read bald surprise.

“Where did that come from?” She whispered.

He simply smiled and offered to share his program. They perused it, chatting eagerly about the show. Leopold kept one eye on the rest of the patrons as the box filled around them, trying to discern which was Radcliffe. He had no luck, however, and soon the lights dimmed and the show began.

When the final aria of the first act had warbled into silence, the lights re-lit and the crowd applauded. A happy sort of buzz overtook the theatre as the intermission began, audience members standing to stretch their legs, nip off to the loo, or greet friends. Leopold knew it was now or never, so he squeezed Jemma’s hand, leaned in and said, “Darling, I’m off to get refreshments, would you care for a glass of champagne?”

Jemma stifled a laugh. “‘Darling?’” She mouthed, incredulous, but she nodded in a good natured sort of way and returned to reading her program.

Leopold stood, turning just in time to see Hunter nip back into the box. He leaned in to whisper in Leopold’s ear, “Sir, if I may be excused to attend to that urgent matter?”

Something about being called, “sir,” set Leopold’s pulse thrumming, or maybe it was the feel of Hunter’s breath—hot on the delicate skin behind his ear.

Down in the lobby, guests mingled about and took refreshments. Leopold strained his ears until he hears the familiar rolling burr of a Glasgow accent. The source, an older man with greying hair and a long face, leaned against the bar waiting for his drink to be mixed. Leopold sidled up beside him and ordered champagne for himself and Jemma, loudly, so the man beside him couldn’t fail to hear.

“Well, do I hear a fellow Glasgenian?”

Leopold turned around in mock surprise. “Why yes,” he said. “And you are?”

“Holden Radcliffe.”

“Doctor Holden Radcliffe?” Said Leopold, laying it on quite thick.

“Indeed.”

“I’m such a fan of your work,” Leopold continued. From the corner of his eye, he watched Hunter stalk through the crowd, sniffing out men who were clearly in Radcliffe’s employ. As he glanced around, Leopold saw them disappear into the eaves, one by one. Leopold surreptitiously shifted, and Radcliffe turned to face him. “I just got my hands on your piece in the New World Journal of Medicine. I thought it was brilliant!”

“Yes, well,” said Radcliffe, “I find the Americans are usually a bit more reticent to radical ideas when it comes to science.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Leopold. A small scuffle broke out somewhere to their left, threatening to draw Radcliffe’s attention. Leopold seized his arm and turned him back toward the bar. “Come on, let me buy you a drink,” said Leopold loudly.

“Ah well, go on then!” Said Radcliffe, clearly enjoying the attention.

Hunter strolled back into Leopold’s periphery, dabbing at a split lip with a handkerchief. He caught Leopold’s eye and nodded discreetly as the house lights flickered, inviting everyone back to their seats.

“We’re sitting in the same box, are we not?” Asked Radcliffe.

Leopold smiled. “I believe we are. It was lovely meeting you, Doctor Radcliffe,” he stuck out his hand.

“And you as well lad, I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

He squeezed the older man’s hand a little tighter. “Leopold Fitz.”

The color drained from Radcliffe’s face; he tried to yank back his hand but Leopold crushed his fingers, smiling pleasantly. Radcliffe’s eyes cast wildly about, looking for his men and finding none.

“Now,” said Leopold quietly. “Nothing to worry about. Just come back in, enjoy the rest of the opera. Then you’ll get in your car afterward like you’d always planned. You do that and everything will be fine.”

Radcliffe looked paralyzed with fear. Leopold gave his hand a little shake, pulling him in closer. “Nod if you understand.” The older man gave a shaky nod.

“Brilliant.”

Feeling quite smug indeed, Leopold took his champagne and returned to join Jemma for the second act.

Jemma quite loudly did not inquire how Hunter had managed to split his lip during the intermission and allowed Leopold to help her into the car after the final curtain. Leopold watched out the window as Ward, wearing the uniform of one of the opera house car attendants seized the valet from the driver’s seat of Radcliffe’s car and took his place. When Radcliffe got in, Ward drove off at a high speed, taking the corner by the theater at two wheels and peeling out of sight.

Leopold turned back to Jemma, who was eager to discuss the play. Leopold was high of the success of his first job, tipsy from champagne. The pair chatted animatedly, and Leopold was so distracted by his victory that he took no notice of Jemma’s hand resting on his thigh until they were about a block away from her flat above the bookshop. When Hunter pulled the car over to the curb in front of Daniels and Simmons, Leopold hopped out to offer her his arm. Jemma stepped down and turned to face Leopold, clutching her flowers.

“I had a lovely time,” she said in a soft voice.

“So did I.” Leopold bent to brush his lips against her knuckles.

There was a very pregnant pause. “Would you care to come upstairs?” Jemma asked, her voice breathy.

Leopold’s mouth ran dry as sandpaper. “Erm, well—erm,” he stuttered into silence.

Jemma simply smiled expectantly.

“I’d love to.” Leopold turned toward the car. “That’ll be all tonight, Hunter,” he said, dismissing him with a wave and a smile. A surprised little frown flashed across Hunter’s features but it vanished before Leopold could question it too much. He nodded and drove off without another word, leaving Leopold feeling confused and inexplicably guilty.

Jemma fumbled to extract her keys from her small clutch purse and let them into the darkened bookshop. She unlocked the door and Leopold followed her inside, positively vibrating with a whole new kind of anxiety.

Jemma was still talking about the play but Leopold barely heard her; his brain was full of a strange sort of fog. Inanely, the thought he couldn’t shake was that Ward was going to win his bet after all.

“—anyway, I’m knackered. I’ll put on a spot of tea for us before bed. Shall I make up the cot for you?”

These words took a moment to penetrate Leopold’s foggy brain. “Wait, wait.”

“Yes Fitz?” Asked Jemma, fetching a glass vase for her flowers and filling it with water.

“Well….” He trailed away. Perhaps he had grossly misread the situation. “I thought you wanted…I thought we were, erm.”

Jemma sighed, moving closer. “Oh, Fitz,” she said, cupping his cheek with her hand. “Come on now.”

He stared at her, utterly confused. “What?”

She tilted her head to the side, gave her eyes a little half squint, searching his face for something. “Oh dear,” she said quietly, stepping away. “How can I explain this?”

Jemma sighed again and turned, busying herself with the kettle. Leopold stood rooted to the spot, totally lost.

“Alright,” she said, her back to him. “Well, you know that I was married.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, Will was the love of my life. When he…when he died I was very lost for quite some time. I found it hard to move on because shortly after his funeral, there were a fair number of men looking to become my next husband, or my next lover.” She turned back to Leopold, rolling her eyes. “I had no interest. I still don’t. But I can hardly go down to the shops without some man or other trying to carry my bags, or help me out of my coat. My mum keeps trying to match me up with her friends’ sons. It makes my skin crawl,” she paused, looking at him expectantly. He merely blinked, waiting for her point to become clear. “So,” she continued, slowly, “If letting you spend the night, or take me to the opera—or buy me flowers, means that I’ll be left to live alone in peace and get to spend my evenings discussing literature with my dearest friend in the world…that seems like an alright trade, don’t—don’t you think?”

Leopold still wasn’t entirely sure what she was getting at. Then, he remembered Ward and the bet, again. All the men, waiting for him to bed the “sweet young widow,” laughing behind his back—and to his face, sometimes. Garrett calling him “little Fitz,” and Ward smirking when he suggested Leopold grow in his whiskers. He thought of his father, suggesting he work harder to remind the lads that he was a man, like they were. He thought that it might be nice, in fact, to let the lads believe he was courting Jemma, if that meant they’d leave him bloody well alone. He smiled sheepishly and gave a nod. “That cot better be comfortable.”

Jemma smiled sweetly back at him, reaching for his hand and squeezing it tight. Then, her eyebrow shot up, and her smile turned sly. “Besides, I thought there might be another reason you’d be alright with this sort of an arrangement.”

Leopold felt himself blushing, and almost against his will his thoughts meandered back to the theatre, to Hunter leaning in to whisper in his ear—calling him “sir.” He thought about waking up in Hunter’s bed, the feeling in his stomach like he’d missed a step going down a flight of stairs. Leopold coughed and turned away. This was nonsense. He was just all mixed up, relieved and disappointed at the same time, experiencing some strange sort of romantic whiplash thinking Jemma would be taking him to bed and then learning she had no such notion. Leopold accepted a steaming mug from Jemma, frowning down at the steeping leaves. He had to get his head on right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter comes from the song "Balthazar, Impressario," by Frank Turner. 
> 
> Should I make a playlist for this fic??
> 
> Also, thanks to everyone that has commented so far! your comments give me life <3


	5. Broken Boys and Girls, With Tattered Flags Unfurled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunter struggles with himself a bit, and Leopold gets some advice from Jemma. The boys get a new assignment from the leaders of the Framework.

"We were born without meaning, we will die without reason,  
And the world will not shrug all that much at our passing.  
Yes you can try and try and try,  
But no one ever makes it out alive.

All you broken boys and girls,  
With your tattered flags unfurled:  
Fix yourselves then fix the fisher king."

\--Frank Turner, "The Fisher King Blues."

***

Hunter tucked the car away that evening in a sour mood. The garage by the Framework’s base of operations was large; Hunter saw a second vehicle and recognized it as the one commandeered by Ward to abduct Radcliffe.

Hunter dabbed his lip, swollen from where he’d caught an elbow earlier that evening. It seemed to have stopped bleeding. He sighed, deciding to check in and see if he was needed at all, hoping to find a task to distract him from picturing Leopold and Jemma. She’d seemed sweet and intelligent, just the type for him. Hunter scowled, positively hating how much it bothered him to think of Leopold, his girl, and what they were probably doing at that very moment.

Inside the warehouse, he ran into Ward—the only thing guaranteed to worsen his mood. 

“Hunter,” said Ward casually, wiping his hands on a rag. They were covered in blood. “Good work tonight.”

Hunter nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Ward regarded him curiously. “You know, I’ve been meaning to say, you look awful familiar—did we meet before you joined up? I’ve been trying to place it.”

Hunter shrugged. “Just got one of those faces I suppose.”

“Right,” said Ward, skeptical. “Anyway, where’s Doc?”

“Spending the night with his widow,” Hunter replied—half grateful for the change of subject, half resentful to be reminded.

“Damn,” said Ward, surprised. “I actually won the pool.”

Hunter frowned. “What pool?”

Ward laughed, slinging the bloody rag over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you some other time. Head on home; I’m just getting started with our new friend Radcliffe here.”

Hunter’s stomach clenched unpleasantly, but he bit his tongue, bid Ward goodnight and walked home. He wondered what the Framework needed out of Radcliffe and hoped for the man’s sake that he gave up the intel sooner rather than later. 

Hunter was exhausted. He crept silently up the stairs of the boarding house, hoping not to wake Mrs. S. The room was black as pitch, so Hunter groped around in the cabinet over his sink, fingers finding the neck of a half full glass bottle. He sat at the table in the dark and poured himself an unmeasured glug of whiskey, downed it, and refilled his glass. He contemplated this one a bit, wishing not for the first time that he could talk to Bobbi. 

“Bloody hell, Bob,” he said aloud, taking a sip of his drink. Hunter sat alone at his kitchen table, refilling his drink each time he drained it. He didn’t want to go to bed, tired as he was—though if he was being honest getting drunk by himself at his kitchen table wasn’t keeping his dark thoughts at bay either. He poured himself a final round, sipping it as he stumbled to bed.

Clumsy with drink, Hunter struggled out of his vest and shirt, tripping over his trousers as he danced them down his legs. He plunked the glass down on his bedside table and toppled naked onto the mattress. He groaned and gave his leg one last feeble kick to shake loose his stubborn trouser leg before crawling up to sink face down into the pillows.

He tried to imagine what Bobbi would say if she were here, something he’d been doing a lot of since she died. She’d always been there to give him the good advice, call him on his bull shite tendencies. If she was there now, she’d give a squinty half smile, toss a blanket over his arse and save every joke she thought of for the morning when he’d be sober enough to remember. Then she’d sit him down and tell him not to be such a pathetic coward. 

Hunter ran his hands over the soft cotton of his sheets and turned his head to look over to the empty space beside him. His eyes were heavy with half sleep, and he reflected that it’d been a long time since he’d gone to bed with someone. He touched the cold, vacant pillow beside him and an image crept to mind of the last person beside himself to rest his head there.

He’d only been trying to get some workable intelligence that night (or so he told himself), insisting on round after round until the pub seemed to fill with a heady mist and Leopold’s blue eyes shone sharp through the gloom. Intoxicating. Though that might have been the whisky. Then, after they’d settled up and staggered out into the street—arms clutching desperately at each other, trying to stay up right—Hunter had held Leopold’s shoulders still as he vomited spectacularly in an alleyway. 

Hunter had asked him over and over where he lived. “Can’t,” said Leopold, shaking his head. 

“Can’t what, mate?”

“Can’t go there. Home.” Those thrice damned eyes, so bloody blue and clouded up with tears. “Don’t make me go.”

“Alrigh’ mate, alrigh’.”

And so Hunter, none too steady himself, had steered them home to the boardinghouse where he kept a small flat. He went to the kitchen to fetch Leopold a glass of water, and when he turned around Leopold was well into stripping out of his clothes and crawling between the sheets. 

Hunter had tucked the blanket snug around him and brushed the hair from his forehead before meandering off to spend a very frustrating night alone on the sofa.

Hunter smiled as he remembered Leopold lying there in his bed, looking quite sweet with his face squished up against the pillow, breath puffing out between his lips. They’d looked awfully soft, those lips. Hunter touched the pillow case with his fingertips, letting himself imagine Leopold had only just gotten out of bed and would be back any moment. He inhaled, trying to pick up a hint of a scent besides his own. He thought it might be there, buried under the musk of his own whisky-sweat. Hunter was half hard and rutting against the mattress before his drunk brain had fully caught up to what his body was doing. He kept on like that a bit, trying to see if possibly he’d slip off to sleep before the walls he built up so carefully when sober came down around his ears. 

No such luck.

Hunter groaned, rolling onto his back, hand going to his throbbing cock like it was magnetized. He imagined that night, but a little different. They really hadn’t missed by all that much, so it wasn’t all that difficult for his brain to take him the rest of the way. 

He could have yanked Leopold’s shirt off himself, tumbled him onto the blankets and kissed him stupid. He could have peeled off his trousers and covered his body with hot kisses, sloppy-drunk and needy. Hunter pumped himself with his fist, clumsy and urgent, imagining Leopold making eyes at him while sliding those soft sweet lips around the head of his prick. Picturing himself plunging in and out of Leopold’s hot, wet mouth had Hunter’s breathing coming in ragged gasps, his chest heaving. Hunter came explosively without warning, painting himself with come as he let a satisfied moan slip out of his mouth. 

He couldn’t quite muster enough shame to compel himself toward the washroom, so he pulled the pillow tight to his sticky chest and let himself fall asleep before his hollow afterglow could wear off.

***

Leopold and Jemma had spent several nights together since the Opera, cooking together, talking, playing chess, or simply reading in silence by the fire. Leopold had rarely felt so comfortable, so relaxed, as he did washing the dishes in Jemma’s flat while she hummed, making up his customary cot in her sitting room. It was nice.

Tonight, Jemma frowned, eyeing Leopold over the top of her cards. They’d finished dinner and she had decided to teach him to play gin rummy. 

“You are spectacularly bad at this,” she commented after winning her third hand in a row.

“Yeah well, there had to be something.”

Jemma rolled her eyes before giving him a long searching look. “Are you alright? You’ve been elsewhere all evening.”

She knew him too bloody well. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

Leopold shuffled the cards absently, trying his best to word how he was feeling. “Well,” he began, still watching the cards flipping over each other between his fingers, “you know how I have trouble making friends.”

A musical laugh bubbled out between Jemma’s lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. 

He scowled at her.

“Oh Fitz, you know I love you dearly but, as far as understatements go that qualifies as an instant classic.”

He placed the deck of cards on the table, tapping the sides to align them in a perfect stack. He waited. 

Jemma heaved a sigh. “So, you have trouble making friends, go on.” 

“Well it’s one thing my, my father doesn’t —“ Leopold stuttered to a stop again. Not only did Jemma usually shut down any conversation involving the Framework, but Leopold found he had trouble discussing his father.

Jemma looked at him, no trace of laughter remaining in her eyes. She touched his hand softly. “Go on, then. You can tell me.”

He swallowed. “Well, my father...he wants me to get closer with the lads.”

“That’s not the worst thing,” Jemma admitted. 

“Yeah well. Anyway. Someone new joined up and I thought we could be mates. Seemed less pig headed than the rest. Easy to talk to.” He smiled up at Jemma. “A bit like you.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Yeah well. We went and got pissed one night—it got a bit awkward. I thought everything was alright, but I feel like he's been avoiding me. I’m afraid I’ve done something really wrong. He hasn't so much as glanced in my direction since the opera last week.”

Jemma considered this a moment, and Leopold got the distinct impression she was struggling with herself, choosing her words with great care. “You could try asking him if something’s wrong,” she suggested. “There’s worse things than being direct.”

He fussed with the deck of cards a bit and pulled a face. 

“Oh come on, Fitz, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could die.”

She giggled. “I think we both know the fact that you’re even asking me about this means this relationship is important to you.”

He nodded. 

Jemma worried her lip between her teeth for a moment. “Just out of curiosity, does your new friend know the details of our...arrangement?”

He shook his head. “No—I thought that was the point?”

“Well yes but— I’m thinking maybe you could explain it to him, if this is someone you trust.”

Leopold frowned, utterly confused. “Why?”

Jemma gave him a wry half-smile and shrugged. “I think it might just smooth things over a bit. Show him you value his...friendship by sharing a bit of yourself.” The look on her face was a shade too innocent.

Two days later Leopold found himself walking into the pub to meet with his father and Garrett. He was nervous; his father hadn’t said a word to him since the opera. Leopold had been confident in his performance at the time, but the lack of confirmation from his father had set his shoulders up about his ears. He hadn't been able to act on Jemma's advice yet, but he'd given her words no end of careful thought, picking apart the conversation--her tone, her knowing smile--until he was twice as confused as before. 

Leopold immediately noticed the two older men sitting in the back of the pub at a table with five seats. Wondering who’d be joining them, Leopold selected the seat beside Garrett, opposite his father. Everything with Alastair sent a message. Sitting next to him would imply subservience—across from him implied equality. All the things Alastair had taught his son: mind games and social politics. No wonder Leopold had such a bear of a time forming friendships.

“Hey Doc,” said Garrett, clapping him jovially on the shoulder. “Sorry to pull you away from your girl but there’s important things to discuss.” 

Before Leopold could even flag down a barmaid, one appeared at his elbow with his usual drink in hand. The workers knew what it meant to have the two leaders of the Framework here, in the flesh, at the same time. They knew these weren’t men to be kept waiting. Leopold took a sip and tried very hard to seem at ease, like he was unconcerned and cared not one fig for what his father might have to say.

“Leopold,” said Alastair. “Glad you could make it over, son.”

Leopold nodded over the rim of his glass, trying to maintain his facade of feigned near-boredom while inside he glowed. His father calling him “son” in front of another human being was gushing praise as far as Alastair was concerned. 

“We need that cool demeanor of yours for a big job—I heard you were quite the smooth operator at the theatre the other night,” said Garrett. He grinned. “Damn near had Radcliffe pissing himself from what I heard. Your old man and I were so proud!”

“Indeed,” said Alastair, which nearly had Leopold grinning like an idiot. Luckily, a distraction appeared at that very moment: Hunter and Ward entered the pub, threading through the crowd to join them. Leopold felt sweat prickle on his forehead as he realized the two empty seats had to be for them.

Hunter reached the table first and chose the seat beside Alastair—his own politics made clear: he wanted to sit as far from Leopold as possible, which left Ward to sidle in just beside Leopold. He tried to peep around to get Hunter’s eye but the other man was staring resolutely at Garrett across the table. Leopold frowned into his drink.

“So, after my boy Ward here tickled Radcliffe, we got the combination to his safe deposit box at First National Bank in Manchester. That box contains something extremely valuable.” Garrett grinned. “And we want it.”

Alastair remained silent, as he often did. He preferred to let Garrett do most of the talking—something Garrett clearly preferred also.

“Doc here is going to pose as Radcliffe’s son. He’s got the accent, should be pretty believable. Hunter will be with you watching your six, and Ward will slip in as another bank customer, in case anything goes wrong.”

“Sounds simple enough,” said Ward, glancing at those assembled as though he did this every day.

“Ward will be armed, Hunter and Doc—you’ll need to go in with your fists and your wits in case of a pat down. Security will be top notch.”

Ward laughed. Everyone looked at him. “Well, come on,” he said. “What happens if there’s a dust up?”

“What if?” asked Alastair, deadly quiet.

Ward’s laugh choked off. “I just mean—Doc here isn’t really a scrapper.”

Leopold felt like he spent half his bloody life blushing these days. “I can handle myself,” he said, unconvincing.

Garrett stifled a laugh of his own, smothering it with a gulp of beer. Alastair shot him a look to curdle blood but otherwise did not defend his son.

“I can learn,” said Leopold. “I can learn to fight.”

“Fine,” said Alastair. “Hunter, you teach my son some basics. We only have about two weeks until someone realizes Radcliffe is missing. We need to get to the bank before then, or security will be nigh impossible to crack.”

“Make us proud, boys,” said Garrett. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title from this chapter comes from "The Fisher King Blues," By Frank Turner.


	6. The World Has Turned a Touch on Its Axis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leopold confides in Hunter, and Hunter teaches him some self defense basics. When it's time for the big bank job, the boys run into some serious complications.

"In the stillness of the moment it takes for  
A Polaroid picture  
to capture  
our faces forever  
the world has turned a touch on its axis  
and the only thing certain  
is everything changes."

-Frank Turner, "Polaroid Picture."

***

Hunter had scarpered before Leopold could act on Jemma’s advice the night he’d foolishly agreed to brawling lessons. Luckily, he was reporting to the basement where they’d first met--just the two of them, so hopefully he'd get his chance. This evening it was silent. The air was clearer, the temperature pleasantly cool—but the smell was quite the same as it had been the night of the fights.

Hunter had barely said a word, unless you counted him grunting a monosyllabic greeting as Leopold had hauled open the bulkhead doors. The silence was thick as Leopold watched Hunter unbutton his shirt. He wondered how best to bring up with him the nature of his and Jemma’s relationship when Hunter said bluntly, “I wonder how you explained this little outing to Jemma.”

Leopold paused, his fingers fumbling with his own shirt buttons. “We didn’t have anything planned this evening,” he said evasively.

“Ah,” said Hunter, wearing an ugly frown as he shrugged out of his shirt.

“Actually,” said Leopold, clearing his throat, “it’s strange how all the lads jumped to conclusions. It’s not really like that with me and Jemma.”

Hunter’s eyes snapped to his, boring into his face where before they’d been looking anywhere but. “Really?”

Leopold suppressed a smile with difficulty, resuming undoing his buttons. “She’s my best friend in the world,” he said honestly. “and she doesn’t like blokes getting into her business since her husband passed away. She thinks I’ll scare them off.”

Hunter was grinning now. “She thinks _you’ll_ scare them off?”

“You’ll see,” said Leopold. He raised his fists. Hunter actually laughed. He seemed lighter, somehow—like his old self, before the Opera. Jemma had been right after all. She usually was.

“I can be scary.”

“With a scalpel in your hand, bloody terrifying,” admitted Hunter.

“Oh, ha-ha,” said Leopold drily, dropping his fists to his hips. He stopped, realizing Hunter was just sort of staring at him, taking in the sight of his bare chest. He felt self conscious; he couldn't help comparing Hunter's lean muscles to his own softer physique.

“Well,” said Hunter, clearing his throat and looking away at last, “I’ve only got two weeks to turn you into the next Jack Dempsey so we best get started.”

“Alright, what’s first?”

“Well, I should warn you—I’m no real teacher. I think though, it’s probably important for you to learn what a punch feels like.”

“Okay,” said Leopold. Then the words really hit him. “Wait, wait—wha—!”

But Hunter had already drawn his fist back and sunk it with all his strength into Leopold’s gut. He doubled over, wheezing, as the breath was ripped from body.

“What—the—bloody,” he gasped, wheezing, trying to fill his lungs, “—hell--?”

Hunter shook out his fist. “You kept your feet, that’s good.”

Leopold braced his hands against his knees. “You should warn a man before you—“

“No one’s going to warn you in a fight, mate,” Hunter pointed out. He rested his hand on Leopold’s shoulder. “You’ve got to be ready. Now stand up.”

Still struggling to inhale, Leopold straightened up. Hunter swung at him again, but Leopold was ready this time. He flung his body clumsily to the side, dodging the punch. “Ha! See, I’m a quick—whoof!”

Leopold slammed to the ground, sprawled on his back like a turtle. Lights popped in his eyes as his head banged against the cellar floor. Hunter held out his hand to pull Leopold back to his feet.

“You did good,” he admitted. “You anticipated my punch, but you got cocky. You weren’t watching my feet.”

They carried on like this for a while; Hunter’s teaching methods seemed to involve a lot of Leopold flat on his back feeling like a fool. Hunter was panting, and clearly pleased with himself. Leopold shot him an annoyed look as he struggled to his feet for what felt like the hundredth time.

“You could try to enjoy this a bit less,” he grumbled.

“I could,” said Hunter with a mischievous grin. He raised his fists again. “You’re too busy reacting to what I do. Start taking actions of your own. The best weapon is—“ Hunter’s lecture was cut short as Leopold gave into his frustrations and lunged forward, bowling into Hunter. He threw all of his weight into the dive, landing with his knee on Hunter’s shoulder, pinning his right arm to the ground. Leopold seized Hunter’s left arm in both of his hands, holding it down as well.

“—surprise,” Hunter finished, his voice almost a whisper. Chests heaving, the two men stared at each other for a beat, each waiting for the other to make a move.

Leopold had gotten the drop on him, but Hunter was stronger, and far better trained. Suddenly, he curled in on himself, his foot finding Leopold’s stomach and firing a kick that sent the smaller man flying off to the side. He hit the ground with a sad thump, and did not rush to regain his feet.

Hunter rocked himself up into a seated position. “Let’s leave it there for tonight, shall we?”

“Had enough, have you?” Leopold asked feebly, hands covering his sweaty face.

Hunter walked over, seizing Leopold by his armpits and hauling him to his feet. “Take an aspirin before bed,” he advised. “Maybe a hot bath.”

“And a brandy,” said Leopold absently, holding his aching head.

Hunter grinned.

***

“Well you look happy. And I’m not being sarcastic for once.”

Hunter ruffled the pages of his newspaper with a little smile. “It’s a lovely day.”

Coulson eyeballed Hunter over his coffee mug. The weather was a classic, dismal London November day. “Alright, if you say so.”

They ate in silence for a while.

“They want something in the scientist’s safe deposit,” said Hunter eventually. “First National Bank, Manchester.”

Coulson looked thoughtful. “Seems different from their usual score.”

“My thoughts precisely.”

“So, it’s either very dangerous—“

“Very valuable—“

“Or Both.” Coulson frowned. “It might be time to start rounding them up. See what they know.”

Hunter shook his head. “I overhead Fitz and Garrett talking. They’re looking to sell the item, not use it.”

“So the fence is the bigger fish,” said Coulson.

“Exactly.”

“Any idea who it is?”

Hunter shook his head.

“I’ll wire a message to HQ, see if they’ve picked up any chatter. See if you can find out anything else.”

“Will do, boss.”

“And Hunter?”

“Sir?”

“Be careful.”

Hunter nodded and left the café. He’d paid his tab, tipping generously, and walked out into the street. He shook out his umbrella, shielding himself from the rain, and set off with a spring in his step. Logically, he knew that _not_ bedding the widow and _actually_ bedding himself were horses of two very different colors, but Hunter couldn’t help but feel optimistic. He’d been trying to teach Leopold the basics of bare knuckle fights for a week and a half now, which had three benefits. First, they got to spend a fair amount of time together. Second, Hunter had a lot of new files stored away in the dark corners of his mind for his lonely evenings. Third, Leopold was actually learning fairly quickly. He now spent at least half of the time on his feet rather than on his back, and he’d managed to land a few hits on Hunter during their last lesson. Hunter was confident that his student would be able to at least hold his own enough to escape a fight, if not win one. For ten days’ work that wasn’t half bad.

The mission was rapidly approaching, however, and Hunter was still nervous. He knew if things went south at the bank, he’d have to resort to some fairly serious measures to prove his loyalty to the Framework and avoid blowing his cover. The fact that he was working with the two leaders’ sons put him even more in the hot seat. He couldn’t care less about Ward, of course, but if something happened to Leopold—well, Hunter wasn’t about to let that happen.

The day of the job, Leopold woke before the sun. He’d spent the previous evening with Jemma, thinking that most of the lads would find it strange if he avoided his girl the night before something big.

Unlike other evenings he’d spent in the cozy little flat above Daniels & Simmons, Leopold had fallen asleep in Jemma’s bed. They’d sat against the headboard, drinking tea and reading, and must have drifted off sometime in the night. It was warm and nice there, Leopold reflected, looking at Jemma sleeping--but he had work to do.

He brushed a fond kiss to Jemma’s forehead and dressed to leave as quietly as possible. He hoped she dreamt of happier times, of Will maybe—of the family she’d surely wanted. Maybe it was cruel because it would never be, but she deserved happiness. Peace. Even if it was only in a dream.

His guts clenched as he locked the door behind him, unsure why he felt a strange finality as he left. If all went according to plan, he’d be having dinner with Jemma the following evening.

The pre-dawn London streets were quiet as Leopold made his way home. The sun was rising instead of setting, but otherwise Leopold found his preparations to be fairly similar to the Opera job. He fussed over his suit and waited, nervous, for Hunter to pick him up. Leopold was a bundle of nerves, bouncing on the balls of his wingtips and vibrating with anxiety by the time Hunter pulled the car around.

“Good morning,” said Hunter with an exaggerated bow. “ _Sir._ ”

Leopold shivered. The street was empty but for the two of them. Hunter gripped his arm, firm. He looked deep into Leopold’s eyes. “You’ll be fine, mate. You did brilliant at the Opera. This is just the same. A role. A character.”

Leopold nodded, his mouth dry. They drove in complete silence. “Ward’s taking his own taxi,” said Hunter—who couldn’t abide silence—answering the question Leopold did not ask. “Thought it best if we all arrived separate.”

Leopold nodded. He decided he could be Leopold Fitz—jumpy, nervous, drowning in his own thoughts—until Hunter opened the door to let him out. Then, he’d become Leopold Radcliffe—a son on a simple errand to the bank for his father.

“Sir,” said Hunter. Leopold let his enjoyment of the moniker ground him in his role.

“Bring the car around and meet me inside,” he said in a commanding voice.

Hunter nodded.

Leopold straightened his tie and entered the bank as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Under the pretext of checking his pocket watch, he swept the lobby with his eyes. The room was marble wall to wall—a bit ostentatious, really—and full of patrons. He almost missed Ward sitting in the waiting area—almost. Ward didn’t acknowledge Leopold in the slightest; he merely regarded a sheaf of papers in his lap as if it were the most important document in the world. He had a leather bag by his feet, which Leopold was sure was stuffed to the gills with weaponry.

Hunter materialized at Leopold’s elbow. They made their way to the teller. Leopold flashed him a smile. “I’d like to visit my father’s safe deposit box,” he said.

“Name?”

“Leopold Radcliffe.”

“We do not have a Leopold Radcliffe on the books here,” said the teller, checking his manifest.

“Ah, I thought you mean _my_ name. My father’s name is Holden. Holden Radcliffe.”

“Of course, sir.” He perused the files again. “I’d be happy to have our manager assist you.”

Leopold smiled pleasantly, as if this didn’t bother him in the slightest. He was glad to have Hunter at his back. A smartly dressed woman approached them. Leopold sensed Hunter tense behind him—but the other man said nothing so Leopold was sure he imagined it.

“Hello, Sir,” she smiled warmly and extended her hand. “My name is Ms. Hand. I’d be pleased to assist you.” She adjusted her glasses, sweeping long brown hair behind her ear.

“Of course,” said Leopold, clasping her hand. He hoped she didn’t feel how sweaty his palms were. Hunter was breathing loudly behind him, setting Leopold on edge. He struggled to maintain his composure.

“We weren’t aware Doctor Radcliffe had a son,” said Ms. Hand.

“Well,” said Leopold, leaning casually against the column. “You know how intellectual types are. A bit scatterbrained. My Da is the worst.”

She smiled warmly, seeming charmed. “Of course, sir. Let me just double check our files and I’ll be able to show you to the vault.”

As soon as she turned her back, Hunter leaned forward. “We should go,” he hissed in Leopold’s ear.

“What?”

“Something’s off,” said Hunter, sounding panicked. “I don’t think—“

“Mr. Radcliffe?” The manager was back. “All of this appears in order. Doctor Radcliffe left notes in his file that his next of kin would have access to the deposit box. Right this way.”

Leopold raised his eyebrow and glanced toward Hunter, who sighed, and nodded. They followed Ms. Hand back toward the vaults.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” she said, gesturing toward the wall of number boxes. She bowed politely and excused herself. Leopold approached deposit box 616 and used the tiny key he’d been given. The door opened with a clunk, and Leopold slid the removable drawer from behind it. He set the drawer on the table and opened it. Inside was a wooden chest, thoroughly unremarkable. Leopold lifted the chest out of the drawer with bated breath and lowered it into the thick sack Hunter had brought with them. “We need to get out of here,” said Hunter. “I don’t like this.”

Leopold didn’t need telling twice; they had the package after all. Leopold stowed his key in an interior jacket pocket and followed Hunter back out into the corridor. Ms. Hand was waiting patiently to escort them. As soon as they closed the door to the vault room behind them, Leopold knew something was wrong. He heard screams, curses and the unmistakable pop and shatter of gunfire cleaving through Italian marble.

“What the—“

“GET DOWN!” Hunter shoved the small of Leopold’s back as the wall beside his head was struck. Shards of stone rained down over them. Leopold looked up and saw that Ms. Hand had drawn a gun from somewhere inside her tailored blazer and had it trained on the two of them—all trace of flirty professionalism gone. Hunter seized the back of Leopold’s jacket, yanking him to his feet; Hunter spread his arm, shielding Leopold and shoving him to the side as Hand fired her weapon. The bullet pinged, ricocheting in the closed space.

Hunter shoved Leopold roughly, pushing him into motion. Looking over his shoulder, Leopold saw that Ms. Hand had kicked off her pumps and was grappling hand to hand with Hunter. He wrestled her gun away and struck her across the temple. She went down with a grunt and Hunter scrambled to catch up to Leopold. As they rounded the corner to the main atrium, Leopold took in the scene in the lobby, bewildered. Ward was lying on his stomach, hands clasped behind his head. Four men in suits had their guns trained on him. A man with a bristling mustache and a brash American accent was shouting orders. A police inspector trained his weapon on Hunter and Leopold. Leopold shoved Hunter out of the way, stumbling to one knee and just narrowly avoiding getting hit himself. The bank’s workers and patrons were screaming to one another; absolute chaos reigned as bullets flew. An officer grabbed Leopold’s jacket. He twisted out of it, leaving the man holding his favorite trench coat. Hunter practically dragged him out the side door.

They crouched behind the bins in the alley, trying to get their breath. “Ward,” said Leopold wildly, struggling back to the door, “we can’t leave Ward—“

“FORGET WARD!” Hunter bellowed, dragging him further down the alley. “They’ve already got him! It’s too late!”

Reluctantly, Leopold let himself be dragged along, let his mind go blank with fear.

By the time Hunter let them stop and catch their breath again, Leopold was gasping. They were in another alley. “We need to get to a safe house, lie low,” Hunter was saying absently.

“We left Ward,” said Leopold in disbelief.

Hunter gripped his shoulder. “We couldn’t have gotten him out. He was already surrounded. We’re lucky we slipped out with our skins.”

Leopold nodded.

“Alright,” said Hunter, looking around. “Alright. I have a contact around here that should be able to put us up for a night. No questions.”

Leopold nodded again but in all honestly he wasn’t even listening. His mind was still blank—buzzing with an insistent sort of panic that had him stumbling over his feet as Hunter tugged him along by the hand. He felt light headed, and like time was skipping—jolting forward. Suddenly, Hunter was shutting the door behind him to a tiny flat. He leaned his back against the door and slumped back against it with a sigh.

Leopold stood in the center of the room, looking around but not seeing, terror building somewhere in his gut and threatening to explode out of every orifice, if he was being truly honest. The room seemed to spin around him, the panic in his head making him dizzy.

“Erm,” he said, legs quivering. “Erm—“

Hunter looked up concerned, his eyes combing over Leopold’s trembling body. He froze. “Were you hit?”

Leopold looked down at himself in surprise to see a tear in his shirt across his rib cage, coupled with a red stain. He touched the flesh below the rip and winced. The pain caught up to him all of a sudden and he swayed dangerously on his feet. Suddenly, Hunter was there, supporting him into a chair by a rickety old dining table.

Hunter unbuttoned the ruined shirt and pulled it away. He nudged Leopold to turn, and regarded the wound thoughtfully. “Thank bloody Christ,” he said in relief, “it looks like just a graze. I’ll see if I can clean you up—“

“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Leopold, jumping up. He nearly knocked Hunter over in his haste to gain his feet.

“Out of here,” repeated Hunter in disbelief, “And where do you suppose we go?”

“Back home!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Hunter, standing up.

Leopold couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. “We have to find out what went wrong, what happened—“

“No, we do _not,_ ” said Hunter. He grabbed Leopold’s shoulders. “We have the thing from Radcliffe’s deposit box. Let’s just take a beat—“

“’Take a beat!?’ How can you say that? They took Ward!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Hunter snapped, “Who bloody cares about Ward?”

“I do!” Said Leopold, stepping into Hunter’s space. He jabbed a finger into the other’s chest. “And if you’re going to be a part of this family you better care about him too!”

“Family,” scoffed Hunter, slapping Leopold’s hand away. “That ‘family’ obviously doesn’t care about you! Your father sent you in with no experience—no backup—“

“So this is my fault?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—“

“Then what are you saying?”

Hunter growled in frustration and turned away. Adrenaline pumped through his body.

“Oh well, what—suddenly you’re speechless? Mr. Always has something to say! Well, Hunter, I need to get home, I need to talk to my father—“

“Ah, of course,” snapped Hunter, flinging up his hands and turning back around to face Leopold. “Why think for yourself when you can have you father pull you along like a bloody puppet!”

Leopold felt as if he’d been slapped. His mouth flopped open, hurt and at a complete loss—raw as an exposed nerve.

“Oh, now look who has nothing to say,” Hunter continued, scathing, advancing now. He shoved his own hand into Leopold’s bare chest. “Why don’t you think for yourself for once? What do _you_ want, Leopold? What do _you_ want to do?”

That question was all it took—all it took for eight years of uptight repression to shatter and snap Leopold like a twig. He seized Hunter by the collar of his shirt, yanking him close. His eyes flickered briefly from Hunter’s bewildered eyes to his smart mouth before Leopold came for him like beast. He smashed his lips into Hunter’s without a trace of tenderness, his teeth biting Hunter’s lower lip hard enough to make the other man gasp, an opportunity for Leopold to shove his tongue into Hunter’s mouth. His hands released Hunter’s collar, one finding its way to the back of his head, the other resting against his chest as he sought to claim every inch of Hunter’s mouth with his lips and tongue. They grappled, vicious, for a while before Hunter broke the kiss, gasping for air. “You should warn a man before you do that,” he panted, pushing his forehead into Leopold’s.

Leopold grinned, his hand finding Hunter’s and twining their fingers together. “No one’s going to warn you in a fight,” he breathed. Softer this time, Leopold leaned in, brushing his lips to Hunter’s, again—a question.


	7. A Sinner Among Saved Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunter & Leopold finally allow the dam to break between them. Hunter tries to find out exactly what happened during the bank job and ends up showing his hand.

"So I sat down   
In my sadness,  
beneath your window  
And I played Sad songs  
on the minor Keys  
of a broken piano--  
A sinner among saved men  
on the banks of the muddy Thames."  
\--Frank Turner, "Broken Piano."

\----

“Is this a fight then?” Hunter wasn’t entirely sure why he was whispering—wasn’t entirely sure of anything. Had he been shot at the bank, and was really lying dead in some unmarked robber’s grave? He couldn’t quite summon the energy to care.

Their foreheads still pressed together, but Leopold was moving his away, moving to nose the line of Hunter’s cheekbone—to find his jaw and bare his fangs against the pulse hammering in his neck. Leopold had no clue what he was doing, but he was doing it—that much was certain. He was moving like a man possessed, steering Hunter to the bed in the corner of the room. Well matched, they moved as one, locked together at the lips, and wound up kneeling, facing each other on the mattress. Hunter brushed his knuckles up Leopold’s bicep, across his chest, down his side. The the fingers of his other hand found Leopold’s chin, pushing it up, looking into those blue eyes that he’d known from the start would be his undoing.

Leopold’s hands were at Hunter’s sides, trying to pull him in closer. His insistent thumbs traced the grooves of Hunter’s hip bones, trying to close the distance between them. Hunter didn’t give in; instead he looked down, gathering Leopold’s hands into his own, stopping him in his tracks. Leopold’s fire seemed to falter. “Is this—did I do something wrong?”

Hunter pulled Leopold’s hands to his mouth, pressing sweet kisses to his knuckles, his palms, his wrists. “Sweetheart, you’re doing everything right.” He smiled. “I just want to slow down---remember this. All of it.”

Hunter pulled back, and Leopold was afraid at first, until he realized the other was merely leaning to recline against the pillows. Leopold moved forward on his knees, straddling Hunter’s thighs, the gap between them painful, but he wanted to remember this too—and he was having trouble remembering his own name at this point.

Hunter looked up at him, warm brown seal’s eyes hooded with want. “Is this real?”

Leopold slid his fingers from Hunter’s grasp to make fast work of the other’s shirt buttons—but he didn’t want to keep his lips off him either, so he leaned down to kiss Hunter’s mouth into silence, chafing himself on his scruff. Lips burning, Leopold pulled away, allowing Hunter to shrug out of his shirt. He’d now seen Hunter shirtless many times, but never like this. He pressed his palms to Hunter’s taught chest, marveling at the feel of his muscles moving, heart pounding beneath Leopold’s palms. Leopold felt something else, something hard—something hot and insistent jutting into his hip as he pressed his body down on top of Hunter’s.

Leopold faltered again, and Hunter saw a look in his eyes like a skittish deer. “Love?” He murmured, cupping Leopold’s cheek with his hand, “you alright?”

Leopold stiffened from head to toe, confidence flowing away like a rip tide. “Erm.”

Hunter moved below him, gently shifting Leopold downward so they were lying side by side on the narrow mattress. They lay on their sides, facing each other. “What is it?”

“It’s just, I’ve never—“

Hunter went cold all over; he should have known. “With a man?” he prompted, voice gruff. He looked away.

Leopold stroked Hunter’s cheekbone with his thumb. “With anyone,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. He leaned in for a kiss, hesitant. “You asked me what I wanted to do—and here it is, this—I just, I’m sure I’ll muck it up.”

Hunter couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Oh, darling. Not possible.”

Leopold kissed him again, regaining some of his heat. He kissed Hunter until his lips were burning raw from the scraping of Hunter’s stubble, kissed him till they were both panting for breath. His hands moved in lazy circles over Hunter’s torso until he remembered the feel of Hunter’s want pressing against his hip. Leopold moved to straddle him again, grinding his own cock against Hunter’s thigh, eliciting a delicious groan from deep in Hunter’s throat. Leopold nipped at his jawline, tracing it back toward his ear with teeth and tongue until Hunter was whimpering for more. The sound was electric.

Their hands met in a messy tangle, each racing to undo the other’s trousers first. After some aggressive yanking of fabric, they were naked together, lying side by side once again. Leopold’s head was absolutely spinning. His fingertips brushed nervously down the soft stripe of brown hair running from Hunter’s belly down to his cock. Hunter moaned as Leopold’s hand wrapped hesitantly around his shaft, his thumb brushing over the velvety soft head.

“Bloody hell,” said Leopold, abandoning Hunter’s lips to peek down between them, hypnotized by the sight of Hunter's cock in his hand. His own seemed neglected, so he pressed it against Hunter’s, pumping them both with his fist. The sight and the sensation left him entranced. Hunter threw his head back and moaned again. “You really can’t multitask, can you,” he panted.

“Oh, right,” Leopold angled his head back up and Hunter’s lips were on his in an instant, smothering his breath, demanding his attention. Hunter spit in his palm, and his fingers joined Leopold's helping him stroke them both in tandem. Their hands moved faster together, clumsy and eager, and Leopold felt himself teetering on the edge. “Wait,” he huffed, disengaging from Hunter’s mouth. “Wait, if we—I can’t,” he couldn’t think straight.

Hunter’s hand slowed. He tilted his head to the side. “Tell me.”

“I want you,” said Leopold baldly.

“You have me.”

“No—I want,” Leopold licked into Hunter’s mouth, trying to marshal his courage. He drew away from the kiss. “I want us to fuck,” he whispered in a rush.

Hunter could have come right there; something was so sweet but so filthy about Leopold’s plea. “Then why are we stopping?” Hunter couldn’t quite keep the purr out of his voice, or resist his hips shifting up, craving heat--friction.

“Because I could go off right now, which would spoil my grand plans, somewhat.”

Hunter stilled his body with enormous effort. “Alright.”

“Can—can you tell me what to do?”

Hunter sank his head back into the pillows with a needy little groan. He couldn’t help his hips thrusting upward of their own accord. He rolled his body up toward Leopold’s chest, pressing every inch of their flesh together, sliding his nose up the cords of Leopold’s neck. “Start with your fingers,” Hunter murmured, hot in his ear.

Nervous, Leopold worked his hands around, gripping Hunter’s arse and pulling him tighter against his body. Leopold stroked slowly while rutting his cock against Hunter’s thighs. Leopold’s hands were small but strong— and as he kneaded the hot flesh of Hunter’s arse, scared—hesitant but dexterous.

“Wait,” gasped Hunter, sounding eager enough to give Leopold some courage. Hunter seized Leopold’s fingers and drew them to his mouth. Hunter sucked Leopold’s middle and index fingers deep into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them, coating them with spit. Leopold’s blue eyes went wide. “Bloody hell,” Leopold said again.

His fingers went back to Hunter’s arse with a new confidence, sloppy with spit, working their way toward the tight ring of muscle hidden there. Delicate, precise: that’s how Leopold Fitz was accustomed to moving his hands. Surgical. However, when his fingers found their target, his brain went fuzzy and he pushed his fingertip in with abandon. Hunter gasped and whimpered, putty in Leopold’s arms as he sunk in to the knuckle of his index finger. Elated, Leopold worked Hunter over, kissing his neck and crooking his finger to stroke Hunter's hot channel. Each stroke compelled his lover closer, Hunter thrusting his cock shamelessly against Leopold's body/

Hunter’s cock throbbed against Leopold’s belly. His mouth let loose a stream of absolute filth as Leopold’s probing fingertip found a tight bundle of nerves and lingered there.

“Ever since I saw you in my bed, I’ve wanted to get you back there sober, wanting me.” Hunter grunted. He hardly even knew what he was saying.

“I don’t feel sober,” Leopold admitted, sliding his finger out of Hunter and returning with a second. He wriggled the two, stroking and probing—so nimble, so exacting.

“You’re cock drunk,” rasped Hunter, before his voice broke down into wordless moans that vibrated against Leopold’s neck. “And those fingers are _wicked_.”

Leopold grinned, pleased with himself. “Told you I’m a quick study,” he panted into the top of Hunter’s head.

“Too bloody right,” Hunter agreed, “will you just fuck me already?”

Leopold groaned, removing his fingers and pushing Hunter onto his back and moving to crouch above him. He seized Hunter’s hips, then slid his palms down his thighs. He pushed those thighs apart, staring at the hole he’d just ravaged with his fingers. Leopold positioned himself, the head of his cock whispering against Hunter’s spit-slicked entrance. “Are you sure?”

With a growl, Hunter hooked his legs around Leopold’s knees and grabbed for his waist with desperate hands, sufficiently trapping him. Leopold took this as a resounding “yes” and pushed into Hunter, deep and slow.

Sweat broke across Leopold’s shoulders as he pressed his forehead to Hunter’s again. It was just too much—over stimulated, with all synapses firing electric, Leopold seized up, holding his breath. Hunter’s arse was choking his cock, hot and tight, leaving him delirious with pleasure. As Leopold looked down between them, he saw his own wiry red-tinged hair tangling with Hunter’s soft, fawn-like down, Hunter’s prick thrust up between them. “Jesus bloody fucking Christ,” Leopold swore and Hunter laughed, laughed soft and sweet with tears in his eyes as Leopold stretched him wide, looking absolutely wrecked below him, and Leopold thought he might slit his own throat to bleed that beautiful sound out into the world again—but he didn’t have to. He covered Hunter’s laughing mouth with his own, marveling at the feeling of being one.

The kissed like that for a while, before Hunter broke off. “Now you move a bit, sweetheart,” he whispered, brushing his lips to Leopold’s sweaty forehead.

With a low grunt, Leopold withdrew, then sank in again. Slow, agonizing. He scooped his forearms below Hunter’s legs, pushing him in on himself, trying desperately to fuck him deeper. Leopold bottomed out, growling like an animal. Nothing—nothing had ever compared to this. The rolling of Leopold’s hips had Hunter thoroughly dissolved, the sounds emanating from his throat almost enough to push Leopold over the edge. Almost. He increased the pace, following his heart—and by his heart, he meant his cock, surely—and his instinct. He took Hunter harder and harder, spiraling toward a high like nothing he’d ever felt. His hips snapped against Hunter’s arse again and again, and Leopold found a dark secret part of his brain hoping to leave bruises—sweet little purple marks he could chase with kisses later. Hunter gasped and moaned with each thrust, begging for more, the noise making Leopold dizzy.

“Come for me, Fitz,” Hunter murmured, desperate, his strong hand going to Leopold’s face, looking deep into his eyes. “You absolute beauty.”

As Hunter’s knuckles slid across his jaw, Leopold came—feeling a miracle he’d held off this long before losing himself, Hunter’s tight arse milking his cock of every last drop of hot come he contained. Leopold collapsed, pressing his nose into Hunter’s chest hair, feeling the latter’s cock pulsing against his fevered skin, thick ropes of come shooting between them as Hunter chased his own climax.

They breathed each other in, air coming back to their lungs in hot gasps. Hunter was not a big man, but Leopold was slight enough to find himself completely encircled in Hunter’s arms. Leopold nuzzled up into the crook of his neck, inhaling Hunter’s smell.

“I should just take what I want more often,” he mumbled, completely dazed.

“I like the sound of that.”

***

Leopold slept like a stone wrapped up in Hunter’s arms. Hunter, however, didn’t sleep at all. He kept his breathing heavy and slow, not wanting to disturb Leopold—but his mind moved a mile a minute.

Hunter recognized Victoria Hand the second she’d approached them in the bank, and he knew he’d catch an earful for knocking her out. She was a high ranking investigator, worked with Coulson on a lot of ops. The other guys, the ones who’d nabbed Ward, were new to him—possibly US military. Glancing at the clock on the wall, Hunter saw it was about two in the morning. He had to make contact with Coulson, find out what the hell happened. Slowly, Hunter rolled Leopold over, extricating himself from the blankets—though it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. As he dressed, Hunter watched him sleeping. Splayed out on his back with the thin sheet rucked up around his hips he looked like a bloody work of art. Hunter was sorely tempted to ignore the mess they were in and climb back into bed and never leave. But he couldn’t. Hunter lingered at the door. The temptation to crawl back to bed was overwhelming. He watched in the half light as Leopold’s hand crept along the sheet, feeling around for him.

Leopold opened one eye and peered blearily at him. “Where are you going?” He sat up, looking confused and scared, and Hunter was ashamed that Leopold could think he was sneaking off in the dead of night.

Hunter’s feet closed the distance back to the bed without his permission, and he leaned down to brush a soft kiss on Leopold’s sleepy mouth. “Going to get us something to eat, and get something for your scrape.”

Leopold looked down at himself like he’d forgotten he was grazed by a bullet twelve hours ago. His side was covered in blood, smeared by Hunter’s grasping hands. “We may have to burn these sheets,” said Leopold, looking around himself at the red stains on the bedding. He looked up. “So you’re coming back?”

Hunter kissed him again. “Of course I’m coming back. Go back to sleep, love.”

***

Once outside, the bracing air and pre dawn fog allowed him to come back to himself a bit. And himself was bloody furious. 

His first stop was the Manchester police department, assuming that’s where they brought Ward, and that’s where he’d find Coulson, Hand, and some answers. 

“Hunter?”

He whirled around. Coulson was stepping out of a taxi, looking like he’d had a stressful twenty four hours. Hunter found that his sympathy was limited.

“Oh hi Inspector,” said Hunter, voice thick with sarcasm. “Care to tell me what the bloody hell happened yesterday?”

“Come inside, Hunter.”

They entered the dark police barracks. Coulson kept throwing sidelong looks Hunter’s way.

“What?” Snapped Hunter finally, annoyed.

“Did...did something else happen last night?”

Hunter felt himself immediately turn red. “No, why?”

“Because you almost died, you sound furious, but you have this really weird grin on your face.”

Hunter tried to marshal his lips into a proper frown. “I do not.”

“You can’t stop smiling.”

“I can too.”

Coulson raised his eyebrows but said nothing. They turned down a dark corridor, past the empty holding cells toward where Hunter imagined the interrogation rooms would be.

“I got something to kill that smile,” said Coulson grimly, holding open a door to Hunter’s left. They walked in and Hunter peered through the two way glass. Ward sat handcuffed to an iron bar, hands folded on the table. He looked supremely unconcerned over his predicament.

“Grant Ward,” Hunter said, making the name a curse. “I’m smiling to see him in here, I can say that.”

“I have to wait for Interpol. They are not happy. The line was garbled but...Talbot was yammering on—something about you pistol whipping Victoria Hand?”

Hunter shrugged. “I had to maintain my cover.”

Coulson scrutinized him briefly. “You wanna take a statement from Ward?”

“With pleasure.”

Hunter took a beat, trying to clear his head. This was important, and he couldn’t very well do his job with half his brain back in bed with Leopold.

“Ward.” Hunter took a brief moment of pleasure in seeing surprise flicker across ward’s passive features. 

“You’re a cop.”

Hunter nodded. He placed his hands on the table and leaned into Ward’s space. “Figure out where you know me from yet?”

Ward frowned, but then his eyes went wide. The bloody bastard looked right into Hunter’s face and laughed. 

“I didn’t recognize you without a rifle scope between us,” he hissed, eyes glinting. “Didn’t recognize you not crying, not covered in that dead agent’s blood.” 

Hunter’s body went cold all over, and like someone pressed a white hot wire to his brain he launched himself across the table and grabbed a fistful of Ward’s hair. Hunter yanked down with all his strength, smashing Ward’s face against the table with a satisfying bang. It felt so damn good he pushed his head back and slammed it into the table a second time. It was chaos in Hunter’s brain—Ward was laughing, Coulson and some bloke from Interpol came crashing through the door. They seized Hunter by the arms. He struggled violently, trying to get back to Ward. 

“Let—go!”

“Hunter what the hell are you doing?” Coulson was an older man, but strong and bull-stubborn. He planted his feet and dragged with all his strength, and between him and the Interpol Bloke they hauled Hunter bodily toward the door. Ward looked up and grinned, his teeth dripping red and his nose smashed to hell. 

“Shame I had to put a bullet in your partner’s pretty face,” he said, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor. 

Coulson seized Hunter by the waist and threw him from the room. “Hunter! Hunter, come on calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to bloody calm down, Coulson!”

“You’ll want to check that tone, son.” 

Hunter whirled toward the voice. He immediately recognized the mustachioed American who’d been bellowing orders at the bank. “And who might you be?” 

The man puffed himself up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Brigadier General Glenn Talbot. United States liaison to the Interpol Taskforce—“

“Yes fine, lovely, now— if you’re Interpol, can I ask why your men tried to blow my fucking head off at the bank?”

Talbot massaged his temples in an aggrieved sort of way. “Don’t get your crumpets all in a bunch, Agent,” he snapped. “Join me in the briefing room and I’ll explain all about it.”

Coulson, Hunter and Talbot adjourned to a sitting room down the hall. 

Everyone was silent for a good long while. Hunter chewed his tongue and paced. “Well!?” 

“Easy, Queen Elizabeth,” said Talbot. Hunter ground his teeth and cracked his knuckles. “Does the name Verner Reinhardt mean anything to you?”

Hunter shook his head.

“How about Red Skull?”

“I’ve heard of him, every SHIELD agent has. He’s a rogue German scientist. Radical human experiments.”

“Well he fell in with the German military after the War ended. He’s hiding behind them to fund his experiments.”

Hunter nodded, waiting for him to go on, but it was Coulson who picked up the story. “We’ve been tracking Garrett and Ward, they’ve been working for a subversive group.”

“Hydra,” said Hunter.

“Well Interpol thinks that Red Skull is the founder.”

Hunter let that sink in for a minute, Chewing over the knowledge. 

“Internationally speaking, this Framework group was small potatoes until a few years ago,” said Talbot.

“Until Garrett and Ward joined up,” guessed Hunter.

“Ward and Garrett are using the Framework to pull jobs for Red Skull and Hydra.”

Hunter felt a chill run down his spine. “So the thing we nabbed from the bank...”

“It’s a weapon. Deadly.” Talbot placed some photographs down on the table. They were dark, but the figures represented looked like burned and broken statues. 

Hunter frowned at the pictures. “Are those...people?”

“They were.”

Hunter stared in horror at the photos, but Talbot was still talking.

“Red Skull had his two top scientists trying to unlock the secrets of the weapon. Verner Reinhardt and—“

“Holden Radcliffe,” supplied Hunter.

“Right in one. Now, we aren’t sure if Radcliffe found a higher bidder than Red Skull—“

“—or found himself a conscience,” Coulson added, “but he took off with the weapon. So Red Skull commissioned your new Framework mates to track him down and retrieve the weapon.”

Hunter continued pacing, processing all of this new information. After a few strides he realized Talbot and Coulson were staring at him. “What?” The word practically exploded out of Hunter’s mouth. 

Coulson and Talbot exchanged confused looks. “The weapon. You secured it didn’t you?” 

Hunter looked at his feet, shuffling back and forth guiltily.

“Agent Hunter,” prompted Coulson, “where is the weapon?”

Hunter puffed up his cheeks, huffed out a breath. “At the safe house, with Alastair Fitz’s son.” 

“What?” The two older men yelped in unison.

“Son,” said Talbot, advancing on Hunter. “My boss, Agent Hand, is so far up my rear on this that she can chew my mustache.”

Hunger wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

“And you’re telling me that you left the weapon with the Framework?” Talbot rounded on Coulson. “We’ve gotta get a location on that safe house and go in with a strike team. Get Agent May on the line—“

“Hold on,” said Hunter, a high whine of panic in his brain. “The younger Fitz is a different sort of animal than his father. I bet I could get him to talk. If we cut a deal he could help us bring down the whole operation. I’m fairly certain they’re still keeping Radcliffe holed up somewhere.”

“And what makes you think you can sweet talk a son into fingering his own father?”

“We’ve grown...close.” He paused. Coulson threw him a look, lasting only a fraction of a second. “We’re mates. He’s been my source of intel the whole time.”

Coulson frowned. “Alright, Agent Hunter. I’m going to give you twenty four hours. If I don’t have that weapon in SHIELD custody by then we’re going in with a strike team.”

Hunter nodded. “I better get back then.”

*** 

There were still a few hours before dawn. Hunter opened the door to the safe house as quietly as he could. Leopold was still passed out asleep and Hunter heaved a sigh of relief. He was bloody exhausted and knew the next scene between them was going to be an ugly one. The selfish part of him wanted to prolong the intervening moments as long as possible.

He set down his bag and slipped out of his clothes. Moving slowly and gently, he peeled back the blankets and slipped into the warmth. Hunter pushed his chest to Leopold’s back and his lips to the nape of his neck. He inhaled, deep and long, filling his lungs with the scent of their sex and feeling his eyes grow heavy. I can pretend a while longer, he thought, his hand snaking around Leopold’s waist to pull him closer.

***

Leopold woke warm and happy as the dawn sun filled the room with light. The tickle on the back of his neck from Hunter’s breathy little snores sent a shiver down his spine. 

He squirmed, rolling over to face Hunter.

“Hey,” he whispered. 

“Mmmmm.” Hunter didn’t open his eyes.

“Hey,” said Leopold again, smiling. He prodded Hunter in the side. 

Hunter opened one eye by way of answer.

“I thought you were going to get supplies to patch me up,” he said in mock hurt. “I’ve been here, mortally wounded, and you’re just having a lie-in.”

Hunter smiled, and stretched like a cat. “I didn’t want to wake you up.” He propped himself up on one elbow and lifted the edge of the blanket to peek. “It’s not even bleeding any more,” he pointed out.

“Oh well, I suppose that’s fine then.” Leopold rolled onto his back and regarded Hunter, eyes quizzical. “Are you alright?”

“Just tired,” Hunter lied, moving to disentangle himself from the bedding. “Sit up, you.” He nudged Leopold with his foot before standing to dress himself. He fetched the supplies from the bag. 

Leopold frowned at Hunter's back. “We’ve got to hurry, anyway,” he said. “We’ve got to get the package home. And I’ve missed dinner with Jemma. She’ll be worried sick.”

Hunter pursed his lips but said nothing, moving to kneel by the side of the bed. He had dunked a cloth in the wash basin and gently cleaned away the blood from Leopold’s ribs. “I don’t know if we should rush back right away,” said Hunter evasively. 

“What are you—ah! That’s cold—what are you talking about?”

Hunter placed a pad of sterile cotton over the wound to delay answering, before securing it with a bandage. Hunter stood, finally meeting Leopold’s eye.

“I don’t think we should give them this package.”

“Are you having a laugh?”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

Leopold frowned and stood, searching the room for his clothes. “Hunter be serious. That was the job.”

“Yeah well, don’t you think it might be dangerous?”

Leopold hopped into his trousers, pulling them up and placing his hands on his hips. “What makes you say that?”

“The police were obviously there waiting for us. They took Ward—they’re obviously not going to give up. That makes me think this is something...big.”

“Yeah well, that’s not for us to decide is it? It’ll be my Dad and Garrett’s call.”

Hunter could have smacked him. Instead he closed the distance between them and grabbed Leopold by the shoulders. Giving him a little shake, he said, “Come on, Fitz. Wake up! Would bloody Interpol be dragging Ward off for questioning just to stop the local gang from running girls or fixing a few horse races? This is something bad.”

Leopold twisted out of Hunter’s grip and backed up a step. He looked frightened. “How did you know that?” He asked in a small voice. 

“What?” Asked Hunter, distracted. He was rubbing his face with his hands.

“How did you know,” Leopold asked in a deadly voice, “that the blokes who took Ward were Interpol?”

Hunter froze. He lowered his hands, agonizing slow. “Erm, I just thought—-their accents—“

“How did you know!?”

Hunter growled in frustration, turning to grab his jacket off the peg on the wall. He rummaged in his pockets. Yanking something out he tossed it to Leopold, who caught it in surprise. He turned the object over in his hands; it looked like a slim leather billfold.

“Open it.”

Leopold obeyed. Inside was a shining silver badge, emblazoned with a commanding eagle logo. He looked up at Hunter, mouth open in horror. “Shield?” He whispered, his voice high pitched and anguished.

Hunter nodded. Leopold dropped the badge to the floor and jumped back as though it had burned him. He covered his eyes with one shaking hand. “What the bloody—you set us up!”

“I didn’t, I swear—“

“I could have been killed, Hunter!”

“You don’t think I know that? I was right there by your side, and I’m telling you whatever is in that box is dangerous enough that my own boss didn’t give a damn that I might get caught in the crossfire.” Hunter pointed across the room, and both men glanced at the box. Their eyes went back to each other, and both lunged across the room in the same instant. Hunter was faster, and stronger. He got in Leopold’s way and seized his hands. “If they catch you with your hands on that box,” he said, “they will nail you to the wall. They will send you to a deep dark hole in the ground and you’ll never see the light of day again.” 

Leopold struggled to free himself but Hunter held him tight. He pulled him closer, raising Leopold’s hands to his lips. Hunter pressed frantic kisses to his knuckles. “Please, Fitz,” he whispered, “Your father and Garrett want to sell this weapon to someone who will use it to kill and control people. Your father is not a good man,” Hunter pressed his forehead to Leopold’s, urgent. “Please. You know I’m right. You have to trust me—“

The words were like an electric shock. Leopold jumped away, snatching his hands back. “Trust you,” he spat. “How can you even say that with a straight face, Hunter—or whoever the hell you are?” He dodged around Hunter and snatched the box from the chair where they’d left it. He thrust it into a bag and made to leave.

Hunter moved to block the door. 

“Move.”

“No.”

“Hunter, get the hell out of my way.”

“No.”

They stared at each other, an impasse. Leopold looked at Hunter, eyes cold. “You going to bring me in? Cuff me?”

Hunter broke first, looking down and away. He said nothing. 

“Didn’t think so.” Leopold heaved the bag over his shoulder, pushed past Hunter, and was gone.


	8. Each Can Be Redeemed by the Courage With Which He Confesses

"Each can be redeemed   
by the courage with which he confesses:  
So darling I miss you--   
Your music and your musk and your kisses.  
I don't think I can do this."

\--Frank Turner, "Redemption"

\--  
  


Leopold walked quickly, breathing heavy and mind a complete buzzing blank. Hunter may not have had the stones to arrest him right there, but he didn’t think the rest of his colleagues would agree. He had to get back to London, quickly. He sped off down the street, clutching the bag close to his body.

Once he got himself on a train, Leopold’s mind showed signs of wanting to return to the previous evening—an alluring blur of flesh memories, sounds and sensations—but he closed those thoughts in a little box in his brain and locked it up tight. Last night never happened, he told himself. And if it did happen, it doesn’t matter. Hunter was a liar, and never cared for him—he was only using him to take down the Framework.

He moved through the train station in a fog, time skipping by in strange chunks. Suddenly, he found himself back in his flat. He dumped the wooden chest out of the bag onto his bed. It looked utterly unremarkable.

Leopold knew he should bring the box to his father. That was the job. It was his duty as a son. But he frowned, looking down on it. What if Hunter had been right? His father wasn’t kind, or compassionate by any means—but, weapons of war? That was a bit much to imagine, even for his father. And Garrett.

There was a line, he was sure of it. A line between the underworld and….he regarded the box. Whatever the hell was in there. Still though…he couldn’t shake Hunter’s voice, pleading—or the look of fear in his eyes. Leopold turned the box in his hands before making up his mind.

He found his father and Garrett where he knew he’d find them: a tiny, dank office in a warehouse by the docks. He knocked on the door.

“Enter,” came his father’s voice.

He walked into the office without a word and placed the box on the desk with a satisfying _thunk_.

Alastair looked at the box and then up at his son. “Well done, Leopold,” he returned to poring over the shipping manifest in front of him.

Leopold stared at him, incredulous, as the silence continued to spiral. “Is that it?”

Alastair looked up with genuine surprise. “Is there something else you needed, son?”

Leopold scoffed, rolling his eyes. He turned to Garrett. “The police took Ward.”

Garrett frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. “That’s too bad,” he said with a smile.

That smile turned Leopold’s stomach. “He’s your son.”

“ _Adopted_ son.”

Leopold turned back to his father, looking for some sort of reaction. His father sighed and looked at his partner. “Should we silence Ward?”

Leopold’s blood ran cold. He had no love for Ward, sure, but talking about him with such detachment…

“Nah,” said Garrett, unconcerned. He picked at his fingernail. “He’d die before talking.”

Alastair nodded absently, and then returned to his manifest. Garrett looked at Leopold and then said, “Hang on—what happened to Hunter?”

Leopold scowled. “He sold us out.”

“Really,” said Garrett. “Color me surprised.”

“Is there anything else, Leopold?”

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

His father looked genuinely confused. “What is bothering you, son?”

“Ward’s in custody, I almost got killed, and I just told you Hunter betrayed us—“

“He’ll be dealt with,” said Alastair, waving a hand. Dismissive.

Leopold rapped his knuckles on the box. “I want to know what I almost died for.”

“A weapon,” his father said without hesitation. “New, extremely dangerous. Can kill with a single touch, or so Doctor Radcliffe claims.”

“And who are you planning to use it on?”

“We’re not planning to use it, Doc,” said Garrett, as though explaining the obvious. “We’re going to sell it. Get rich.”

“To whom?”

“Some German,” said Garrett. “Some scientist who works for their military.”

Leopold could have fainted. This was so much worse than he could possibly have imagined. “Are you bloody serious? We just finished one World War—you don’t see how this could _easily_ lead to a second?”

Alastair looked him dead in the face, eyes like a snake ready to choke the life out of a kitten. “I don’t see how that’s any concern of mine.”

Leopold stood, aghast. There was no line. Or if there was, his father and Garrett had left it far behind them.

His father returned to his shipping manifest. “You are dismissed, Leopold.”

Leopold put on his jacket, numb. He picked up his bag, shouldered it and turned for the door. He hesitated, his hand on the knob.

“Goodbye, Father,” he said, and left.

***

“Dammit, Hunter!”

Hunter sat, his forehead resting on Coulson’s temporary desk at the embassy in London. “I know,” he told his feet.

“Hunter, you lost a deadly weapon and a valuable asset, _and_ now Garrett knows we’re on his tail.”

“I _know_ ,” Hunter groaned again, miserable.

“The only reason Talbot hasn’t chucked you in a cell is because I told them Fitz gave you the slip and made off with the weapon.”

“You _what?_ ”

“Let it go, Hunter,” said Coulson, “it’s done.”

“No—if they catch him they’ll—”

“You tried to tell him,” said Coulson, more gently. He rested a hand on Hunter’s shoulder. “You tried to—“

There was an urgent bang on the door, before a young man burst in.

“Agent Triplett, I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed under any—“

“Sir, I think you’re going to want to see this,” Tripp cut across him. Hunter didn’t lift his head from the desk until he heard a familiar warm Scottish burr.

“Inspector,” said Leopold. He placed a small bundle on Coulson’s desk. It gave a surprisingly loud, metallic clang. “My name is Leopold Fitz.”

Coulson had his gun out in a flash, trained on Leopold’s chest. Leopold raised his hands above his head and gave a meek little smile. He eyed the bundle on the table. “I’m ready to talk. And I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”


	9. Glorious You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! This is technically an epilogue. The previous chapter is the real end, but I was kinda going through bad biz when I wrote this, so I wanted to write a really happy ending for the guys, if you know what I mean. TBH this chapter is all smut and they get vanilla-style kinky for no reason other than it pleased me.

"With your mixed up metaphors,  
and your messed up makeup,  
You're glorious, you.  
With your tongue tied tragedies,   
and your too small t-shirts,   
You're Glorious, you."   
  
\--Frank Turner, "Glorious You." 

\----

Leopold sat quietly in the interrogation room, surprised at how calm he felt, considering he was handcuffed to the table. It was like a caul had been lifted from his eyes and he’d seen his father clearly for the first time. Alastair Fitz was a monster, and Leopold was like a man waking from an enchanted sleep—why had he ever craved his approval? 

He only wished he could tell Jemma; he thought she’d be quite proud of him for breaking free at last. Well, in a manner of speaking anyway. He frowned down at the handcuffs, jingling the chain against the metal bar keeping him tethered to the table.

The door opened and Hunter slipped in, looking awkward. He twisted his hat in his hands before pulling the vacant chair around to sit at Leopold’s side. Leopold knew if he kept silent it would only be a matter of time until—

“Coulson’s going to be in in a tic,” said Hunter. “Is it...is it alright that I’m in here?”

Leopold nodded, happy to let the silence grow, knowing it would make Hunter squirm. They sat for a while before Leopold gave in, glancing sideways at Hunter. Leopold was surprised to see a faint smile playing about his lips. Hunter’s eyes flicked up and saw him looking. 

“I must say,” Hunter said in a quiet voice, “I quite like you in handcuffs.”

Leopold frowned in disbelief. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.”

Leopold rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“Fitz—“

“You lied to me!”

“I had to,” said Hunter. “Can’t you understand that?”

“Of course I do, but do you really think I could ever trust you again?”

“I’d like to hope so.”

Leopold sighed. He wanted to, as well—possibly he’d never wanted anything so badly. Hunter placed his clasped hands on the table beside Leopold’s, close—not quite touching. Tentatively, he whispered the pad of his little finger against the back of Leopold’s hand. Leopold couldn’t help but smile, and he didn’t pull his hand away—not that the cuffs would let him get very far. 

The door clicked open and inspector Coulson walked in, looking wrung out but happy. “Mr. Fitz, your intel paid off. We were able to apprehend your father and John Garrett, take down a majority of the Framework. We found Holden Radcliffe alive; he’s being treated at St. John’s.” Coulson smiled and leaned in, using a small key to unlock the handcuffs. 

“You’re free to go,” said Coulson. Leopold stood immediately. Coulson held up his hand, “for your safety, however, we think it wise if you two laid low for a while. Your father has a lot of contacts, Mr. Fitz, including law enforcement.” He consulted the file. “We inquired after Miss Simmons at your request. She said no one had been to see her, but under our advisement she has closed the bookshop and went to visit her mother in Grimsby. She was very happy to hear you were alright.“

“That’s a relief,” said Leopold, shaking out his hands and massaging his wrists. 

Coulson looked at Hunter. “Perhaps if you could return to the Manchester safe house for a few days? I can send word to you there.”

Hunter nodded. Coulson handed him his badge and side arm. “Now, I have the supreme joy of liasing with Interpol. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

***

Hunter and Leopold arrived at the safe house, the silences long and agonizing to Hunter, who for once held his tongue and spoke only when spoken to.

He clicked shut the dead bolt behind them and sighed, watching Leopold react to the space. His eyes lingered on the bed in the corner and Hunter finally cracked.

“I did end up having to burn those sheets,” he said. 

Leopold looked back at him with the ghost of a smile. “Got new ones, I see.”

Hunter took a tentative step forward. “So what d’you think?”

“About what?”

“Your new life,” said Hunter. “A fresh start, away from your father, the underworld, all of it.”

Leopold turned his back to Hunter for a moment. “I always thought I might like to go to University.”

“Oh, aye, you’d be brilliant!”

Leopold turned, smiling like a wolf in a henhouse. “But I’m not fully ready to leave my old life behind.”

“What do you mean?” Hunger asked, worry clenching his guts.

“I may have knicked something from the embassy on our way out the door.”

Hunter paled, panic rising in his gullet. This was wrong, totally wrong; if Leopold really stole back the weapon—

Leopold distracted him with a small metallic clatter, raising his right arm and sliding back his jacket sleeve. Locked around his wrist was one end of a pair of handcuffs, the other dangling loosely from the chain. He placed the key on the peg by the door, looking at Hunter with raised brows. “Well?”

Hunter was on him in an instant, seizing the chain and twisting Leopold’s arm behind his back. “Good God man,” Hunter breathed, crushing Leopold’s body close. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Before he could form an answer, Hunter covered his mouth with lips fevered and wanting. With one hand holding fast to Leopold’s restraints, Hunter seized the front of his shirt with the other and yanked with all his strength. Buttons flew, pinging off the walls as Leopold gasped into Hunter’s mouth. Leopold allowed himself to be undressed one-armed, wriggling eagerly out of his now-ruined shirt. Each kiss was full of teeth—Hunter’s as he claimed what he wanted with nips and bites, or Leopold’s as he couldn’t contain his grin.

Hunter shoved him down onto the bed, straddling him. He forced Leopold’s arms above his head, locking the cuffs into place around the wrought iron of the bed frame. Hunter paused, examining the restraints as Leopold wriggled deliciously between his thighs. Leaning in, Hunter pushed gentle kisses to the soft skin of Leopold’s wrists. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Hunter whispered. “Is this alright?” 

Leopold nodded. “I guess I can’t help but trust you.”

“Must be some kind of idiot.”

“Must be.”

Hunter stretched out, bracing himself on his forearms. Already rock hard, he rolled his hips, pressing every inch of himself against Leopold, who let out a needy little whine and pushed his own hips up to meet him. Hunter’s blood was hot; the friction between them made his eyes roll back. He leaned down for a kiss, long and slow, like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t about to come in his trousers. 

Hunter drew away, looking down, marveling at the bound angel writhing below him. Leopold closed his eyes, stretching his neck to try to steal another kiss but Hunter dodged his hungry mouth. 

“What’re you doing?” He whined, struggling a bit against the cuffs. 

Hunter smiled. “Just thinking of all the ways I’m going to make you fall apart,” he said before moving to pull off his own shirt. Leaning down again, Hunter pressed his lips to Leopold’s cheek, moving down through his ruddy scruff to his sharp jaw, gentle bites trailing up to his ear. Hunter darted his tongue over the impossibly soft flesh of Leopold’s earlobe, sucking it between his teeth and biting down, just the whisper of teeth making Leopold buck and whimper below him.

This achieved nothing beyond spurring Hunter on, so he took his time, grinning into Leopold’s neck, his hands going to Leopold’s hips. They were softer than his own, with less defined muscles, smooth and tailor made for his hands to grab. Hunter dipped his thumbs just below the waist band of Leopold’s trousers while his lips left hot, wet kisses down his lover’s neck. 

“I think these need to come off,” Hunter mused as if talking to himself, plucking at Leopold’s belt loops. “Thoughts?”

Leopold nodded, eyes squeezed shut. 

Hunter trailed kisses down Leopold’s chest, lips ghosting over each nipple before his breath blew hot and insistent on Leopold’s navel. His fingers set about undoing the buttons on Leopold’s trousers, pulling them down without losing the contact of his lips on the soft skin of Leopold’s belly. “Hmmph,” came a noise from above him.

“Yes?”

“Tickles.”

“I can stop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Hunter grinned, his toothy smile scraping across Leopold’s flesh. Soon, Hunter had worked Leopold free of his trousers, and he had to take a moment to gather himself. Again, Hunter had a nagging suspicion that this was some sort of fever dream, because how—how could this possibly be real? 

Hunter raked his hands down Leopold’s sides, thinking he had never seen anything quite so beautiful. Hunter was lightheaded, dizzy with need. Staring into Leopold’s eyes, Hunter nearly lost track of things until he felt an insistent poke against his arm. Leopold’s cock, angry red and hard as an iron bar, nudged him into action. Hunter moved low, burying his face in the thick wiry hair between Leopold’s legs, inhaling his scent before rasping his tongue up the underside of his shaft. Leopold gasped above him at the sudden contact, and when Hunter slid his lips around the head, he heard Leopold’s voice, strangled and high pitched, keening like music. Hunter hollowed his cheeks, working his tongue around Leopold’s cock, taking the whole bloody thing in his mouth like a starving man. It was all he could do to hold down his lover’s thighs and avoid being thrown off as Leopold thrashed, frenzied, trying to fuck deeper down Hunter’s throat.

Hunter withdrew, pausing to dart his tongue across the slit of Leopold’s cock, savoring the salty sweet nectar of his pre-come before pulling his mouth off completely. 

“Wha-wha,” Leopold panted, peering down at Hunter, struggling against the handcuffs. “Why are you stopping?”

Hunter crawled forward, placing a hand on Leopold’s chest to feel his pounding heart. He kissed him long and deep, surprised that Leopold’s tongue slipped between his lips, eager taste himself in Hunter’s mouth. Hunter paused. “Do you really trust me?” He murmured. 

Leopold nodded. Hunter smiled, wrapping his fingers around Leopold’s needy cock and giving it a few strokes. “I know your prick trusts me,” he said with a soft laugh, as Leopold moved his hips, desperate to rut into Hunter’s fist. “But do you?”

Leopold stilled and gave Hunter’s face a long, searching look—making Hunter feel that of the two he was suddenly the more exposed.

“I do,” Leopold said, his voice soft and hesitant. “Ever since we first spoke. I couldn’t help myself. Just...something about you.”

“I felt the same,” Hunter admitted. “I could tell you were a good person, a good man. I felt like I knew you’d do the right thing if you had the chance.” 

“You gave me the chance.”

Hunter grinned, staring dopey happy into Leopold’s beautiful blue eyes.

“Erm, Hunter?”

“Yes, love?”

“D’you maybe think we could finish this conversation another time?” Leopold jingled his restraints to punctuate his point. Hunter let loose a shaky laugh. “Right, of course—sorry,” he said before diving in for another kiss. 

Having the air cleared between them caused something to snap in Hunter’s brain. He had everything he wanted trussed up naked for the taking, and he wasn’t about to hold back. He kissed him hard, fierce, stealing the breath from Leopold’s mouth until he was trembling and gasping. Hunter breathed onto Leopold’s ear, loving the feel of Leopold’s responding shudder. “Tell me what you want,” Hunter whispered.

Leopold chewed his bottom lip, squirming away from the question. 

“Tell me,” Hunter rumbled in his ear, “I want to hear you say it.”

“I want...” Leopold’s voice was scarce more than a whisper, awed and thick with lust, “I want you to fuck me.”

Hunter groaned, knowing he’d go to his grave with those words in his mind. Magic. He raised himself up to his knees and undid his belt. Leopold’s eyes followed his every move, hands clenched around the handcuff chains, straining against them. Once he’d shed the last of his clothes, Hunter took Leopold’s cock into his mouth again, working him into a quivering frenzy with his tongue. When Hunter moved away to fetch a small bottle of olive oil Leopold emitted a sad little groan, but Hunter was back soon enough—he couldn’t stay away long, anyway. 

He coated his fingers in the fragrant oil, stroking the tender skin around Leopold’s entrance. The latter tensed up, but Hunter showered kisses on his brow, murmuring praise and encouragement until Leopold relaxed a bit, melting soft enough under Hunter’s sweet touches for him to slip in one oil-slicked finger.

Leopold bucked wildly, moaning as Hunter kissed his neck. “Bloody hell,” Leopold panted, while Hunter drew his finger in and out, crooking it to stroke him gently from the inside. 

“I’m not hurting you am I?”

Leopold shook his head, eyes rolling back in almost pained delight when Hunter began to finger him a bit faster. Leopold was deliciously tight; it took all of Hunter’s self control not to skip the foreplay take him hard and fast, especially having him tied up so pretty. Maybe next time, he thought, running his free hand through Leopold’s curly hair, pulling their lips together for another kiss. The desperate hope that there might even be a next time—well, that set Hunter glowing somewhere deep in his guts.

He worked Leopold into a lather with his fingers, until he begged. “Can—I, it’s—too much, need-you, unf.” Leopold sucked Hunter’s lip into his mouth, nipping and biting—so hungry for more.

Hunter pulled his hands back, cradling his own cock and covering it with oil. Leopold peered down, struggling against his restraints, taking in the sight of Hunter’s glistening prick. 

“Are you sure?”

Leopold nodded wildly. 

Hunter positioned himself, looked deep into Leopold’s eyes and said, “Darling, you’re about to lose your god damned mind.”

Sinking in, slow and deliberate, Hunter kissed the tears from the corners of Leopold’s eyes. Leopold gasped, a squeaking air-starved breath as Hunter filled him. He licked his lips and wrapped his legs around Hunter’s waist to pull him in closer, deeper. 

“Does that hurt?” 

Leopold huffed out a groan, confused—like he wasn’t sure if it did, then shook his head, clenching around Hunter’s cock and shifting his hips. Hunter lavished kisses, murmurs and sweet whispers that set Leopold thirsting for more—more words, more kisses, more cock—more Hunter. 

Hunter adjusted, kneeling to tower above his captive beauty, hands cupping Leopold’s arse and thrusting in, rolling his hips slow and then snapping them hard. Each time Hunter struck home Leopold moaned deep in his throat.

Hunter wrapped his hand around Leopold’s cock between them, pumping in gentle strokes in time with his thrusts, which set Leopold positively howling in pleasure. Most of what came out of his mouth was foul nonsense, mingled pleas and curses and animal sounds, but two words broke through and pinged straight to Hunter’s brain through his own lust filled fog— “kiss—me.”

All too happy to acquiesce, Hunter pushed their lips together, licking into Leopold’s mouth to taste everything he could. 

Hunter felt his climax building, like an avalanche he was powerless to stop, moving his hips faster, trailing his lips to Leopold’s collarbone, licking the salt from his feverish skin. Leopold began to stutter and shake, his cock pulsing violently in Hunter’s hands so he loosened his grip, stroking Leopold gas he came down whimpering and panting and spraying them both with come. Hunter sank his teeth into Leopold’s shoulder at his own moment of explosive ecstasy, muffling his cry with a mouthful of flesh. 

Leopold lay below Hunter, quivering and boneless. Hunter slipped out of the tangle of sweaty limbs to fetch the handcuff key, dazed and short of breath. With strong arms he cradled Leopold against his chest to free his hands, kissing again the spots on his wrists where the metal had dug into his delicate skin. Hunter scooped Leopold up, holding him close to his chest, kissing his hair. Leopold clutched at him like one might seize a life raft in a storm.

Hunter inhaled deeply from the top of Leopold’s head, thinking he’d be happy to breathe in that scent for the rest of his life. “Would you like me to draw you a bath?” he whispered after a while, thinking to soothe. 

Leopold clutched him tighter. “I don’t think I’m ready for you to move yet,” he told Hunter’s chest, voice muffled and weak. 

“Sweetheart, I’m happy to stay right here as long as you’ll have me.”

Leopold grinned, face pressed close to Hunter’s skin. “Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from Shakespeare by way of Frank Turner, my favorite artist. His album, England Keep My Bones, is dope. All of the chapters of this fic have titles taking from his song lyrics and I highly suggest you give it a listen. 
> 
> The opening scene was definitely inspired by the scene in s3 when Hunter tries to fight his way into Hydra.


End file.
